Chapter 10: The Frank Church Vision Quest

Idaho Centennial Trail 2022

When I was 12 years old, my brother and I had moved with my grandparents from Las Vegas to the small desert town of Mojave. My first day of junior high, a tiny dusty and windblown school on the western expanse of the Mojave Desert plain, I had a rock thrown at me from a bully and his flunkies. The rock hit me on the side of the end, just above my temple. I had been playing basketball alone at lunch recess. Barely halfway through my first day and I already had to look over my shoulder. At the first break, Malachi saw his girlfriend approach me at the basketball courts. Innocently, she was curious about who I was, where I was from, and if I knew what the desert was. I had not thought about any of those questions before. This was my 6th school in less than a year and a half and I still had not gotten used to being the new kid in school. I did, however, get used to floating around by myself with a basketball in hand, really just being the odd kid out alone. I had to answer questions politely to fit in, if I could. Luckily, the rock missed my temple, but I still stumbled and had to brace my fall with my right forearm on the ground. Stars twinkled above me and I felt the wind whistling through my head, the hot Mojave Desert wind, the kind that blows right through your hollow soul. I took a deep breath, regained an upward stance, and collected myself. I turned and went towards Malachi, shoulders square with intent. He was nearly the same size as me, and with his flunkies close by, I knew he felt pretty cock sure in his position. I narrowed my gaze, unfrazzled, without showing any teeth. His jaw went up pridefully. He wanted me to try and do something. I noticed the pole of the court behind him within a few feet. Rather than throw a punch I knew he would be ready for, I pushed him square in the shoulders knocking him off balance. He stumbled back and hit the back of his head on the pole. His flunkies helped him up and they stormed off, Malachi not even glancing back at me.

My grandpa collected aluminum cans. Sometimes he would go for walks by himself, sometimes he would drive around the local markets and shops and scrounge in the garbage cans for cans. Sometimes he would send us out. I wondered if he would send my brother and I out on these missions just to get us out of the house. We would wander the desert pavement between the creosotes for hours on end. The wind would howl incessantly, our clothes becoming dusty and crunchy with pale dirt. The sun would blister our necks and forearms, our legs protected from the dusty coat of the desert. We carried large 30 gallon garbage bags and just meandered in between the neighborhood and the highway, the field a vast expanse of a barren desert wasteland filled with blown trash from the Los Angeles travelers. We found such a variety of trash, such shit from society, the dandruff of the city -- cans, dolls, condoms, beer bottles, broken glass, toys of all sorts. Sometimes, we would catch a king snake and find a rattlesnake for it to tangle with. We captured horned lizards and fed them ants. We poked scorpions with long and brittle sticks teasing their pincers annoyingly. Once, I found a kennel with 3 dead puppies inside, abandoned by some asshole. 

A few days later after the Malachi incident, I was sent on a can collecting mission alone, my brother some place else with new found friends. As late afternoon began to drift into dusk, I zig-zagged through the creosote until I got to the highway. I had found a can here, a can there, but nothing out of the ordinary. I scurried across the busy highway dodging the weekend Las Vegas goers and scuttled towards the supermarket. I headed straight toward the large garbage bins in the back of the grocery store. I was surprised to find Malachi and his flunkies hanging around the bins smoking cigarettes. He glared at me, grimacing with an evil smile. He pulled a switchblade, as his flunkies began to chime in and surrounding me. I turned and bolted, with the group chasing after me. I held onto the garbage bag, the cans clattering with each stride against my thigh. I raced across the parking lot, careening between parked cars trying to shake the chasers loose. They had spread out and some of the flunkies had begun to flank me and angle towards me, cutting off some distance. I aimed straight toward the highway, and from my point of sight, I anticipated the angle and moment to hit the highway at full speed without getting pummeled by a vehicle. Wham! My left foot hit the pavement and I catapulted across not breaking stride in a straight beeline towards the other side, the garbage bag of cans clanking like the cans off of a rear bumper of a 'Just Married' couple's car. I hit the gravel, jumped a berm, and darted between the creosote. I was in coverage, in sidelong shade from the angling and setting sun, and I knew the bullies would not catch me. My adrenaline kept pulsing through my veins, my drive pushing and digging with each stride. Gravel dusted up and I fell into the rhythm of my breath now calm with the frantic pace. I was in freefall aiming towards the giant metal wind turbine monsters with the blinking red eyes. 

Suddenly, I heard huffing and puffing, like open-mouthed panting. A pitter-patter of clomping steps flanked from behind me on both sides. I twisted my neck to each side, not breaking stride. I spotted four coyotes at a full gallop, their tongues flapping off a corner of each of their mouths. Their bushy tails swishing in the air, bobbing with each elaborate stride. The coyotes gained ground and ran astride of me. They slowed a bit and pulled up alongside me, the whites of their eyes refulgent in the twilight and creased with the stationary movement of a crescent moon smothered by puffy clouds. The wild in their eyes scanned me, pulsing a primordial zap within my being. My stride lengthened. I tried to keep pace. I pumped my arms exhilarated at this sense of freedom. I lost track of time, of place; I just galloped instinctively feeling the magnetic pull of the coyotes. I blended in; I could hear the coyotes, feel them. Unsuspecting to me, the coyotes and I had angled towards the road leading into the neighborhood. The coyotes veered off to the north, slightly turning without breaking speed and into the darkness. I stopped at the road, the pavement as dark as night. I felt the warmth of the day that lingered on the pavement, the miasmic aura of bitumen. My feet absorbed that sun-beamed heat. I looked back to where the coyotes had broken off. I could see nothing, literally nothing. I scanned the darkness. Then, I saw headlights turning onto the lonely desert street from the highway about a mile east. I went back into the creosote feeling the cool of the air sinking onto the desert ground. My heart had calmed down and now I was smothered by a consciousness of emptiness, of a sensation of freedom that I had never experienced before, a sensation of an unending space. I sat on the ground and felt the darkness of night sink in. I had been cloaked by the void of freedom. I had entered the realm of the dreamscape. Oddly, I drifted to a soft voice that whispered in my head that asked the question: Do you know what the desert is? I jogged on to my grandparent's house, the garbage bag of cans shuffling against my hip. I knew my dreaming had begun within my waking life. I had to answer that question no matter where my life took me. Since then, I have had the recurring dream of running with coyotes.

I left Stanley without deliberation from a hangover. The next stretch would be long -- some 450 miles or so in a vast wilderness with only one pavement highway crossing, no cell service, two resupplies at a backcountry ranch and a ranger station, alone and heartbroken with a lingering knee issue. But, since I had committed fully a couple days at the bar, I was willing to stake it all. I knew I had to succumb to the journey that I was on. In 2015, I attempted an Idaho Centennial Trail thru-hike as part of a bigger adventure that I had aimed to highlight some of the least traveled areas —the NoName Route. That year, I was going through a divorce, a situation way worse than the one I was in. I had escaped the volatility and violent clutches of that painful marriage at some point in early August. I found myself at Interstate 80 at the truck stop town of Wells. I hiked northward under ominous skies with the scratches, bruises, and scars of a cat fight. I got into the Bruneau Desert amid 108 degree heat. I hiked like I had never hiked before -- 40 miles a day with only 2000 calories to spare for each day. I was broke, my money gone and given away, and broke of any close relationships. I was hiking like I was going to die on the trail. I got to Stanley around mid August. Hazy skies hung heavily with thick smoke in and above the valley. My fear of wildfires shutting my walk off had come true. Really, the closures meant I had to face my painful reality. I had nowhere to go, no one to go to, so I planned a way through the Frank Church that skirted the closures and wildfires. Chamberlain Basin was burning, closed to any traveler. I hiked around and got to the Main Fork of the Salmon River only to encounter even heavier smoke in the canyon and flames on the other side of the river. I understood what was happening and as soon as I hit the road near Whitewater Ranch I walked the 35 miles to Elk City. I came to value my life at that point. Maybe extreme loss coupled with not being able to do the very thing that made me even keel forced me with that decision: go on and die or deal with it. I am not an inherently selfish person— self-centered, yes — but I couldn’t fathom risking someone else’s life to save my dumbass. So, I escaped, both a marriage and a wildfire.

Needless to say, I had been waiting for the Frank Church ever since. This time I had open and blue skies and a dark and stormy heart. I had planned a different way to connect through to Chamberlain Basin because of my walking into Stanley to rest a weary and injured knee. Chamberlain Basin felt like this place that had been so inaccessible to me then, even now, that I believed I would find a secret there, a secret that would cure my inner wails. I hiked on slowly from Stanley, slowly enough to just think about the day solely in front me, to ponder at the bright blue sky and the pointy and glaring peaks of the Sawtooths, my imminent and present vision. I don't know -- I left a part of me in Stanley. Or, something fell away, broke off. I fell into a walking trance and became lulled asleep by the serpentine trail along the roaring Loon Creek. The tremendous shaking high volume of the swollen river invaded my head, as if I couldn't think of a thing, not even a song. I lost my inner voice, my conscious thought had gone hoarse. I heard the river screaming, sometimes bombarding me with rude belches, or serenading me with the sweet lilt of a charming brook. I undertook my cadence to blend in with the rush of the river. I utilized the whole day, some 15 hours of daylight, to attain the mileage I needed without further injuring the knee, all in a flowing hypnotic state. My walking became the flow of the river and my thoughts became the roar. The roar was so deafening I could not hear myself think anymore. Probably the best thing for me. I stepped out of my skin and dove into the river. I stopped every chance I could to embrace the river. I splashed up handfuls of water as if throwing a comfortable blanket on my body on a nippy night. I yearned to be donned in the current of the river. I craved to have my skin crawling with the ripples of water. I was completely immersed.

I stepped out of the Loon Creek portal and into the furnace of the Middle Fork of the Salmon River. The canyon was very wide, the river too. The river lumbered with the heavy weight of all the creeks that had drained into it. That lumbering went over massive river boulders that bulged up from underneath. In swift marrow sections, I would hear the clanking and booming of boulders being pushed by the undercurrent. An occasional rafting party would float on by, not noticing me high above the trail that cut into hillsides and rock above the river. In one massive gorge, I watched rafters tumble over the huge rapids wedged within the gorge. I could only see the rafters mouth out yells at each other as the rapids bounced off the jagged walls. Sweating profusely, I stopped and leaned against a rock wall in the shade to watch the rafters tackle the rapids. After a minute or so, I continued on on the undulating seam of the trail above the river. The reverberation shook the walls and my head. I hadn't known any other sound in seemingly forever; I was drowning in the roar. Sweat beaded up on my forehead and dripped and streamed down my face. The water I had left to drink had become very warm, almost gagging to drink. I muscled the hot water down and ran out. The heat became oppressive, as the rafters went floating by in the middle of the river down a spindrift chute. 

Finally, the long casting shadows cooled the scorching canyon down. Up a tight ravine the trail switchbacked up until the meandering path topped out at a hogback 1,000ft above the river. A strong breeze cooled me off, the noise of the river noticeably gone. My ears rang out as I took a resting spell nestled under a small ponderosa. The shadows continued to cast, getting longer and longer, as the sun kept lowering on the western serrated horizon. With the roar of the river gone, I finally took a moment to assess my physical body and mental state -- any ticks, how's my water intake, are you eating enough with the blasted heat, how is your knee, is there anything swirling around in that head of yours? I felt remarkably calm, seriously, like the calmest in months upon months. My body almost felt sore from the lack of reverb from the river, my head slightly tingling without the deafening roar. I just felt clear-headed. After 30 minutes or so, I almost leapt up from my nestled position and shot down the trail. The rafting groups began to settle on the beaches along the river. I hung above the groups and silently avoided any potential interactions. I felt gloriously isolated. I had chosen a portal that put me in the big wide world where I was present in the present moment, my whole being simply being. From afar I would watch the activity of the rafting camps as I drifted by. I even strode by a backcountry ranch with tourists playing dude. Rifle shots rang out, the American flag waved up high on a wooden pole, and the tired horses grazed in a verdant field after a long day of carrying those tourists. I traveled onward hoping to find a beach camp so as to take a dip into the cooling waters, as the air still clung with the day's heat.

I found a quiet and vacant beach. I felt the silence sink and I went down a few steps to the river. I crouched down and splashed my face, neck, and arms. The river slowly crept by hugging the contours of sunken boulders, the width of the river stemming on some ledged limestone cliffs. Dusk approached from above and pushed onto the surface of the water a shadowy hand, the river losing its sparkle. I traced a path with my eyes of the moving water and I took an unplanned tiny nap in my crouched position. A boulder clanged into another boulder, a clapping sound echoing from the cliffs across the river. I opened my eyes quickly and fell back on my rear end in the sand. I took off my shoes, socks, and shirt and slithered a couple feet to the shore and sat there in the cool waters of the river. Again, I fell asleep. I must have been exhausted. The Steely Dan song drifted into the front of my head from a deep recess in the back of my head. The song faded in and repeated two times and slowly drifted away and faded back in my mind from where it came from.

Are you reelin' in the years?

Stowin' away the time

Are you gatherin' up the tears?

Have you had enough of mine

Are you reelin' in the years?

Stowin' away the time

Are you gatherin' up the tears?

Have you had enough of mine

I had a full morning left of the Middle Fork before turning up-canyon at Big Creek. I had slept soundly because the river had soothed me. No dreams, just flashes of visions of the landscape of the Frank. My nightmares had ceased since I had left Stanley. Since Stanley, I had felt free of anything, even myself. To boot, my knee had not hurt since Stanley either. I almost felt normal again. The morning felt refreshingly cool and the long shadows came from the eastern reaches high above. Long ridgelines extended from a mountain divide thousands of feet higher. One could only see a glimpse of the depth of the canyon, it just seems like the land goes on forever here. I find it hard to imagine these swollen rivers and creeks at their headwaters. The river wiggled its way through narrows and gorges, wide valleys and beaches, and meadows and basins. Creeks of all sizes dumped into the Middle Fork, none bigger than Big Creek. Up the gorge, the roar of rushing water came back. The mountains sprouted straight up precipitously from the canyon floor. This only made the huge creek deafening. The side canyons rose dramatically craggy and almost everywhere I looked above the land had been burnt. Totems of gnarled, burnt, and petrified trees hung from the cliff sides. The bends of the creek had me in a maze, a labyrinth of land within the canyons and tributaries. Some canyons were hidden and the same with the ridge points overlooking the steppes of the canyon. I got lost within the landscape, tiny and insignificant as an ant on a random hillside within Big Creek Canyon. I was a traveler on a footpath as a bear or an elk walking from one canyon to the next. I sensed a theme out there: just rivers and dirt of wilderness—tierra madre.

A rattlesnake frighteningly signaled a warning as I was walking within a canopy of greenery near the roaring creek. The bandit-faced rattler hung up in the ivy and shook his rattle fiercely. I got the picture and felt pretty damn thankful the rattler gave me the loud and scary warning. I snapped out of my trance of the creek. Out in an open basin, cottonwoods swayed in the wind shooting down the canyon. I could finally see the tops of mountains all around me. The creek, large and wide, swayed away from me as the trail arced to the north to avoid the meadows and bogs. My legs pumped and I began to move swiftly. The temps had lowered a lot since beginning the gradual ascent up Big Creek. In this basin, I could see the sun to the west in full view yet the air just felt calm and warm and not heavy and hot. Once again, I fell into a trance. Conditions were perfect and I began to thrive. I immersed myself into my physical being doing the simplest act: walking. I also immersed myself within the immense landscape doing the simplest act: walking. I began to get that 'flow' endurance athletes seek. I floated along the trail, above it, around it, and in it. My vision zeroed in around the bends of the creek and the contours of the hillsides, a montage of movement. Then... 

[…the dogs are back in my dreams. I’m running with the coyotes again. I turn my head to each side and see the rabid eyes of the coyotes. I am Coyote Head, now. My tongue is lashed out, dry. I am thirsty in the worst way. I feel the pull of them. I feel the connection. I feel the urge to go forward. I pull forward and continually lunge towards the freedom I feel ahead. I am tied with them. I turn my head and see the glow of the city that I recognize as Los Angeles. We are on the fringe of darkness and the city glow.  I turn with the coyotes and leap into the empty night.]

Walking is a waking dream. There’s a subliminal intent of direction in the simplest meditation. We travel inward to faraway places while outwardly we travel at the pace of nature. Walking is hypnotic, transforming, soothing, yet present, the senses piqued as you are a part of the world around you as much as you are in your own head. Walking is astral-blasting, reaching through two different spectrums of reality within light and vision and imagination. Walking will take you to the deepest corners of your inner space, the deepest recesses of our spiritual plane. Walking takes you to the backcountry of the mind. Walking is a ritual, transporting the outer reality to the inner primordial. Walking is a primordial need. We travel down wavelengths of our lineage through the simple act of walking. Walking is immersion into a place -- the river and the land -- and self -- the landscape of self. Walking is the pathway to my vision quest.

I shook myself off of the vision and stared flatly at another rattlesnake. I walked on like a bear being stung by a bee -- aware, but not concerned. I melded back into my rhythm, yet my stride became shorter as I slow-rolled into camp. I found a camp on an isthmus above a bend in Big Creek, just below a rocky outcrop. I paid one last visit to the creek and washed off. The coolness lathered over me like the length of time of that day. I flashbacked to the vision of the coyotes, to the thirst I sensed, to my transfixed pace. In a flash second I spanned 12 hours. I filled my water bottles up with the water of the creek that held the vision. I wanted this day ritualized. I needed the Coyote Head to stay on forever. 

I had a refreshingly cold night. I slept deeply, not rocked by my dreams. I slept with the creek wrapped in the comfort of the cold and the soft sound of rapids, the lullaby of isolation. In the morning, a new and different morning, I began the gradual climb up Coxey Creek. Dampness hung in the air in the small side canyon of Big Creek, the entirety of the canyon scarred by wildfire. Dew clung to the shrubs, bushes, and grasses lining the drainage, the trail overgrown and narrow. Because of the dampness of the brush my legs, feet and shoes became soaked. The spiky rose bushes thrashed the mosquito bites and scratches on my legs, roughly yet so soothingly and cool like new and frenzied love. Without the roar of any major creek, I kind of normalized and could hear myself think again. I hadn't polluted myself with any podcast or music since I left Stanley and I wasn't going to begin now. I wanted to reintroduce myself to myself. 

The ICT took me atop ridge lines and drainages high up in the mountains in the really deep wilderness in the Frank Church Complex. The trail's main aim today would lead me to Chamberlain Basin, the place that held a secret from me back in '15. The whole length of the day I encountered burnt forests, the what-was of lodgepole, conifer, and ponderosa pine forests. The mountains felt barren although green with grass and shrubs. The absence of trees could almost feel eerie, but I have always looked at burnt forests differently. I have compared them to a person being naked. Not just unclothed, but exposed to the inside thought of morals, honesty, and trauma: one cannot hide from oneself in a forest any longer. A deep and dark forest is where mythology, tales, and nightmares reside by the construct of cultures and tribes. Metaphorically, looking at a fire ravaged landscaped I can see the bare contours of the mountain's sinew of dirt, the connective tissue of soil and the arterial torment of water. With erosion the mountains become bare, like one looks at oneself in the mirror, naked. Totems of timber, petrified or burnt, bend stiffly in the wind that whistles and haunts through the standing flutes. You can hear voices, tortured and oddly reflective, creaking and booming. You can see the wind as a wrinkle on one's face. I found myself midday leaning up against a silvery petrified totem nodding off under a small canopy of lodgepoles. The sun arced slowly in the sky away from the shady canopy and glared into my closed eyes, my eyelids pixelated in a flourish of purple. I shook my head to detach from my momentary blindness. I gathered my sight and, across the small valley on a barren landscape, a coyote trotted away from me with an occasional look-back. He wound around a thick and burnt trunk and vanished but not before glancing back at me. I scooched over against the log and found more shade. I leaned my head back and wondered how close had that coyote gotten. Fifteen minutes lapsed as I woke up probably every three minutes or so. Flashes of blurred memories would startle me to a drowsy wakening, the coyotes sprinting along side me with an insatiable thirst in their eyes, But, as a couple carpenter ants crawled on my leg, I woke up from a vision of fingers tickling my legs. I snapped to, stood up, moseyed on, and I sent a message to the deeper self to remove the Coyote Head for a bit. I merely wanted to be outside of my head.

Atop a low pass, Chamberlain Basin came into view. This very large basin extended a wide panorama that included seemingly endless forests. I stood there on the low pass expecting to find something in that gaze, expecting for the secret to be located from the overlook. Nothing is that easy, however. The wind picked up behind me and chimed through a couple dead standing ponderosas. I looked back and the hillside was adorned in petrified gravestones of the remnants of the ponderosas that once dwelled here. I ambled down the low pass and skirted the large meadow adorning Chamberlain Creek. Twilight settled in the amphitheater of Chamberlain Basin and the sky morphed slowly from day to night, from sky blue to pink and orange to midnight blue and dusky purple. The song came back into my head again, the last time the song would reel in my head on this long hike. I whispered the lyrics and chorus under my breath. I could now pick up the song anytime I wanted.

Your everlasting summer and you can see it fading fast

So you grab a piece of something that you think is gonna last

Well, you wouldn't even know a diamond if you held it in your hand

The things you think are precious I can't understand

Are you reelin' in the years?

Stowin' away the time

Are you gatherin' up the tears?

Have you had enough of mine

I slept in an airfield that night, the forest adjacent to the airfield, actually. The cold drooped into the meadows and the humid air fell onto my tarp. I slept soundly amidst the solitude, even though a couple deer wandered into camp and hoofed at the ground looking for salt. I startled awake and broke the silence when I yelled at the deer. I blurted out, 'Hey git!' In the morning, the sky blazed in a soft orange glow amid the mackerel clouds tiled low just above the airfield. I assessed my food and realized I had run low on my supply and still had a very long day ahead of me until I could reach Yellowpine Bar where an historic ranch had held a package of food for me. 

Day 6: Leave it behind, go beyond, do, act, commit fully to the present act; forget why you want to be here, just be here. The mindset of an ultra, getting stronger as you go further, be the last one standing, dive into the cave but forget the pain. Be one of no more pain. Hands in my pocket on a cold morning. Breath low and slow... I decided to be determined that day to be objective. I needed to walk. This put whatever romantic notion of Chamberlain Basin behind me. I took off the Coyote Head. I focused on the forward -- get my ass to food. The surrounding forests held a moist air most of the morning and I just zipped along. I drank more water than usual to alleviate any hunger pangs. I probably had about 1500 calories for the duration of the day and 31 miles in total to get to the ranch. I performed greatly, however, just moving swiftly along a well-traveled trail, and the miles just flew on by. I found large wolf prints in the remaining small piles of snow in the shadows of a dark forest. My head went to the coyote briefly and I could feel the essence of a silent roamer in the faraway mountains. I shook the primordial trip. For a few miles or so the wolf prints would show up, either in the mud or snow, until I hit the burn area of '15. I came across a moose skull at the camp bordering the ravaged area, the evidence of a cold and wet meadow defeating the progress of the fire. I slid on through, pushing up a gradual climb through the scarred area. I had hardly taken a break that day until I had found a lunch spot in the trees, on a prominently long ridge above the Main Fork of the Salmon River. I had a gulping view of the crazy deep canyon, the river some 7000ft below me. I ate little and rested even littler. I got up with a sense of urgency to get to my food drop. Then, everything hit me all at once. I drifted into a zone that just took control over my mind. This zone dialed straight into my heart as I sobbed with each stride. I think I had been thinking of things without knowing I had been thinking of things. The depth of the canyon drew me in. Maybe it was the heat becoming oppressive again. Or, maybe it was my hunger making me a little hallucinatory. Maybe it was bottled up emotion that welled up all at once. But, I ended up with visions in front of my face, all the good memories -- leading the way in the Winds with her, saying 'I love you' in San Luis Valley, cooking for her in the backcountry; recognizing her at mile 60 of the High 5 while I was completely and utterly out of sorts; rooting for and supporting her while she was on the PCT, just seeing her living her best life then -- just moments of happiness. I stomped on in the sticky heat on a trail that plummeted down the enormously deep canyon. I spiraled down a staircase to the heart of it all. I came to terms that I’ll be forever heartbroken. But, I loved her more than anything, unconditionally, which I had never done before. I will forever be stricken by her actions, yet I can accept that my love for her will never die. I can forgive. I am thankful. I vividly thought: I've enjoyed my heartbreak long enough. I teared up with the memories of her and the love I had for her. I understood finally in my long damn life what love is. It wasn't something that I just felt. It is a way of living, a belief. Love was not a reaction. I had no clue where these coherent thoughts and visions were coming from. And, I decided to let all the anger go and leave the hurt behind. Spiraling down the trail and into the depths of the canyon, I began to believe in a bottomless love that would steer my life. I honestly can say I have never had that awareness of love in my entire life. This was different than a fleeting feeling. I felt so grateful in that moment, so fucking grateful. I also felt 'the now.' I felt love for what I was doing, and I felt love for myself. I embraced the positive emotions and I knew everything from that point would be ok. Everything from that point would be ok because I had chosen love to guide me from that point forth. I continued to tumble down the steep descent in the heat. Love swirled in my head, like a religion, and like a philosophy I dove into the newfound knowledge and understanding of love. I felt like my whole life flashed in front of me. Salty tears streamed down my face and I couldn't stop smiling. Love is enduring, love is eternal, and love has proved to be the biggest learning point. I had to lose myself to understand love. I had to give myself to someone to find the love I had never known. I neared the point where I had to end my ICT '15 thru hike due to wildfire. Oh, the time that has elapsed since then. From where I dug myself out of then to where I have dug myself out of now, when the love that someone had given me had completely disappeared without explanation. My heart pumped with the blood of purpose; I had found love within myself. I went into this quest not knowing what I was going to find. I went into this healing knowing I was going to hurt more. I did not know that I was going to find love. I had no clue. I am walking to fill up this enormous canyon in this enormous wilderness. That is why I am here. In that moment of descent into the deep and enormous canyon, I decided to choose love.

Tips and Advice for the ICT

General Overview:

The ICT stretches the length of Idaho from the Nevada border near the remote town of Jarbidge to Upper Priest Falls in the Idaho Panhandle just shy of the Canadian border, some 900 miles in length. I hiked half of the ICT in '15 and hiked the full length in '22, both northbound attempts. In '15, my timing for a northbound hike fell a little too late in the summer and I encountered massive fire closures north of the Main Fork of the Salmon River. Although the ICT is very challenging, it is not the 'toughest thing out there.' The ICT is rugged, remote, requires thorough preparation, is not well traveled, and has hard-to-find resources. Whether in '15 or '22, the ICT reminded of the condition and isolation of the CDT in '12, which means the hike should not be taken lightly. Since that '12 CDT hike, the popularity of long distance hiking has risen and, just 4 years later in '16, the CDT had so many more resources, a million times better signage, a lot more hikers, and had been 'Guthooked.' The CDTC also really began to manage the CDT, which helped with trail conditions and correct signage, town stewardship, and a well-developed set of maps. The ICT, however, since my '15 attempt, has had only minor additional and availability of resources. The ICT does not have an official association to manage the entirety of the trail. However, Clay Jacobson of the Idaho Trails Association did take some leadership coordination over the ICT in '16 after his '15 thru-hike. He has coordinated some voluntary trail maintenance events, including an event in the infamous Marble Creek drainage. But, signage is still the same -- mainly only in the first ~150 or so. One must still be proficient in map reading and navigation within the vast backcountry of Idaho. The backcountry is still very much wild and ravaged by wildfire, which only reinforces perpetually changing trail conditions. Hikers take alternates routes based on these changing trail conditions and wildfire closures. Resupplying is still very challenging, especially since the Covid Pandemic with some properties changing ownership and thus having different feelings about holding packages for hikers in remote areas.

All this said -- the ICT is an incredible trail with an incredibly wild experience at the ready for the aspiring long distance hiker. The corridor of the route is there. One just needs to do their homework and prepare for the ever-changing conditions. Because you will need to adapt to the weather, closures, and obstructed/lost/obliterated trail. Because the ICT is wild as heck.

I am open for further discussion privately if one needs help or advice, or has questions.

Experience:

In '14, I had planned a thru-hike of the ICT until I decided to forego my plans for some other adventures . In '15, I had planned an ICT hike as part of a route from Mexico to Canada dubbed the NoName Route. I had wanted to highlight some of the least utilized and most remote places in the Lower 48. In the end, I came up half empty on the ICT due to closures from a wall of fire shutting off the Idaho Panhandle. In '17, I bikepacked some of the ICT and the whole state of Idaho. I put off hiking the ICT for years as I sought other tough trails and places I had not seen before. Finally, in the Winter of '21/'22 I began the aspiration of giving the ICT another go. Needless to say, this trail has been on my mind for a very, very long time.

I have been entranced by the vastness and remoteness of the Bruneau Desert. I have also been scared silly into an adrenaline exhilaration the three times I have crossed that expansive plain by lumbering and booming thunderstorms. Further north when the terrain and environment greatly change, the Sawtooths sprout up above the Snake River Plain and presents an alipine playground for prospective hikers. Rivers are gorged with snowmelt, passes will be covered with snow, and the alpine lakes shimmer in the long summer days. The Sawtooths are spectacular, none other for me in '22 when record snow levels had sunk deep into the backcountry from a heavy wet Spring. The passes felt reminiscent to me of the High Sierra in '11 when record snow hung around for months over those high mountain passes.

The town of Stanley is a magical vortex that has sucked me each time I have visited that town. Stanley is a wonderful spot to chill before embarking into the Frank Church and Selway-Bitterroot Wildernesses, which can span a detached and isolated time from civilization from 10-14 days. I am in love with the Frank Complex. No other place in the Lower 48 has enchanted me so other than the Gila Complex. The Frank Complex is wild, I mean fucking wild. The land feels endless with even more endless ribbons of the Salmon River river system. Canyons run as deep as 7,000ft from rivers to divides. Trails are either well-trampled or horrendously overgrown, littered with timbered downfall, or completely gone. Wildlife is wild, the bears ornery, the wolves eerily present yet quiet, the moose huge, the mountain goat suspicious, the raptors everlastingly soaring, and the rattlesnakes banded like outlaws. The Selway-Bitterroot feels even more remote, as if you are in the center of the wilderness universe. Most of the times the trail conditions are shitty, despite upkeep by wilderness immersion trail crews. The forest becomes more of rain forest the further north you get and your body temperature begins to go off the scale on both extremes as you are scorched by the sun or sodden by the overgrown foliage. As much as the Frank Church has burned the Selway-Bitterroot has too, yet the undergrowth is way more hairier with thicker undergrowth.

Once crossing the only paved road, Highway 12, in nearly 450m, the hiker enters the Bitterroot Divide area. Oh, what beauty to be crest walking for miles upon miles. I saw so many different types of wildlife, more than one can imagine. Tucked up in the cirques are alpine lakes. From the Bitterroot Divide, the landscape is completely forested as far as the eye can see. As much as I could have use some more immersion into wilderness, I was very happy to walk into Mullan and then taking a bus into Wallace. Other than Stanley, Wallace was my favorite town on the ICT. I could have spent the whole day there exploring the mountain history and lore of the town, as well as partaking in the few breweries around town.

The clear highlights to me span from the Sawtooths to Interstate 90 at Mullan. That vast tract of wilderness is beyond description and my time in that remote are being utterly isolated is something I will continue to dream about. I will cherish my time there. North of I90 the ICT gave me some mixed feelings. I found the Pend Oreille Crest pretty cool despite the road walking leading into it and out of it. I enjoyed the crossing of the Selkirks even though the route through was too short. I thought the final 8 miles of the ICT along the giant cedar groves of the Upper Priest River was sublime. Giant ferns lined a maintained spongy trail that bumped with each step. At the Upper Priest Falls, I camped at the area submerged in the raucous cacophony of plunging water. That noisy immersion alone solidified my emotions of my isolated time on the ICT -- I loved this trail.

Overall Difficulty:

The ICT is difficult. Is it the toughest? No, not even close. The Desert Trail and the Great Basin Trail make this route look very doable. However, the ICT is tougher than all other routes between 500-1500 miles in the U.S. with the addition of the Great Divide Trail -- say for example the GDT, the GET, and the Hayduke. Additionally and condition-wise, the GDT can be compared in difficulty to the ICT depending on the time of year and the weather. As mentioned above in the General Overview blurb, the ICT is similar to what the CDT was some 10-15 years ago. On the ICT, signage can be confusing and only common in the furthest stretches south, resupply stretches are very long, the trail conditions vary drastically from easy to where-the-fuck-is-trail, a slower pace expected, map sets are hard to find including non-thru-hiker created maps like the USFS maps of the Frank Church (even those do not highlight the ICT), and has very, very long stretches of isolation where you may not see another long-distance hiker let alone just a human.

But, the ICT has improved since '15. This time around in '22, despite the extremely high snow levels and water crossings in the Sawtooths, the Frank Church had glorious trail conditions. Trail conditions changed for the worse through the Selway-Bitterroot only to revert back to glorious the rest of the way of trail. If you have done the CDT, you can do the ICT. What has changed in the recent years is that the comparable trails listed -- CDT, GDT, Hayduke, with the exception of the GET -- have been tracked on Guthook (CDT & GDT) or has been tracked by another app and shared (HT). That definitely diminishes the skill level required to hike those trails. Like the ICT, the GET has not been uploaded and tracked by the Guthook app, which means you need to truly know what you are doing. In '13 when I hiked both the Hayduke and the GET as part of my Vagabond Loop, the Hayduke was way harder than the GET. Since the app plotting and sharing of the Hayduke, the Hayduke is more accessible and not in the same nature of what the challenge used to be. One is now more or less following a defined corridor on the Hayduke. The GET, on the other hand, has remained challenging and even more so has gotten more difficult due to the necessity to read a map, the lack of maintained trails, and access issues in certain areas. Hence, the Hayduke has become way easier than the GET now. 

The ICT will probably get tracked and uploaded up to Guthook at some point soon, too. So....get out and hike the ICT before you lose a really true wilderness and challenging experience!

Timing and Direction:

Research your timing wisely. This will require objectively assessing your skill level. If you go to early, you will see high snow levels and treacherous water crossings. If you go to late, your progress could stop with wildfires. If you go too early, you will be in areas before the trail crews can access the wilderness and may encounter horrible trail conditions with thousands upon thousands of downed trees from the Winter. Temperatures are hard to time with the Bruneau Desert and the Sawtooths. You will most likely be uncomfortable. Again, assess your skill level realistically and pick your poison.

I think NOBO gives one a better and more attainable chance at giving a complete and successful thru-hike. With a SOBO attempt starting traditionally later than a NOBO attempt, I think one's chance of encountering wildfire closures is exceedingly greater. For NOBO's I think somewhere around 6/7-6/21 is feasible. For SOBO's, I think somewhere around 7/1-7/14 is feasible. Granted, these suggestions are my opinion and give a window for skill level and these windows may change depending on the year. Please, take the time to really consider your start date.

Trail Conditions:

I would not rely on Facebook groups or past hikers solely for this one. Trail conditions change so much on the ICT from year to year and season to season. I, personally, do not ascribe to what others who have not been out there recently are saying anyways. I am aware of my skill level and prefer to see things for myself. The only thing I would concern myself with is to what route or trail past or current hikers have used in very specific areas, like the Frank Complex. Some trails, or red line, of the old ICT route intention have been obliterated or re-routed, are in terrible condition, or are non-existent. This holds very true from Moose Creek Ranger Station to Wilderness Gateway. In these instances, I contacted former hikers I trusted, utilized USFS Trail Conditions Report, and spoke with the Moose Creek trail crews and ranger. 

I also tracked snow levels that gave me an idea of what to expect.  You can contact land agencies and districts, from the USFS to the BLM, for current and updated trail conditions. Also, I found locals to give excellent advice, ones who utilize the backcountry.

I utilized the Snotel site for the Sawtooths. This site helped me assess snow levels for travel over the passes and the water equivalent of that snow depth to understand the potential for high and treacherous water crossings. I also monitored the Sawtooth SnowCam in Stanley for a frame of reference of snowmelt.

Then, for the Frank Church Selway-Bitterroot Complex I found the USFS Trail Conditions Report very helpful. This gives the reports of the separate districts with updates and details of trail maintenance, the date, and trail names and numbers. The Stanley Ranger Station has some valuable information, as well as the Frank Church USFS large scale maps. Lastly, the backcountry Ranger Stations have valuable and current information from in-the-field rangers

Dig around these sites for current information. I found them so valuable before and during a hike.

All this being said -- none of the conditions are guaranteed! One should have the mindset that conditions WILL change.

Resupply:

Very long resupply stretches exist on the ICT. Really, your main concern is from Stanley to Interstate 90 at Mullan. For the backcountry of the Frank Complex, you can try and utilize the backcountry Ranger Stations the ICT crosses --  Indian Creek, Chamberlain, and Moose Creek. The rangers super helpful. These Ranger Stations have an active airfield and you can call the district the station is in and arrange a box to be flown in via a chartered air service. This will cost money. And, you will have to do your own research. 

Some of the historic ranches along the Main Fork of the Salmon River are no longer accepting and holding packages. In some case, ranches that held onto hikers' packages in the past ended up being stuck with them. This is a huge burden of responsibility put on these ranches. It is pain in the neck to get rid some of these packages. These ranches are settled in some of the wildest and largest tract of wilderness in North America. Please, consider how much these folks are helping you before shipping out a package to some extreme rural area.

One last thing on ICT resupply -- while granted the ICT is growing in hiker numbers, some of these communities are still not as familiar with thru-hikers as other long distance trails may be. This includes Post Offices that may have new employees, resorts or ranches that have new ownership or caretakers, or hotels that reside in a community that does not have postal delivery.

You have to really think in preparation for resupply on this trail!

Resources:

There seems to be a few options. I will only give this advice: Do not take the easy way out on this particular trail and just purchase a resource set if you find one. You will get into trouble just blindly following a red line on a GPS or app.

Please, do your homework on this one and plan the route as if you were building the route. It's 900m long, so it shouldn't take as long as something that may take 4 months to hike. The remoteness of the ICT requires it, I believe. Get to know the place!

Maps and Navigation:

Along with whatever ICT map set you use, utilize a GPS device or app in conjunction with the map set. The maps suggested below really give you insight to the scope of vastness of the wilderness you are walking through. This provides the user with bailout and alternate route options in case of flooding and wildfire whether spontaneous events or closures. The maps also highlight trail and corridor priority for trail maintenance. 

The Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness Maps, 2 separate maps of north and south halves, published by the USFS:

The Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness Maps, 2 separate maps of both north and south halves, published by the Selway Bitterroot Frank Church Foundation:

Gear:

I packed my gear like I was packing for the CDT. Temperatures will be generally colder, but the temperatures vary so much depending on where you are at and at what time of the season you are in. For the overall temperature extremes of Idaho, the drastic change in terrain, the wetness of feet from the constant creek crossings and soggy meadows, and the humidity I brought along 2 crucial and extra items: a silk liner and an extra pair of socks (3 in total). The silk liner provided me with warmth in the chilly Sawtooths and river canyons, general overall comfort when I was sticky with sweat from the humidity, and, lastly, a light throw over when the temps were too hot to get into my quilt. I found the silk liner so damn useful. I have long since ditched a bivy, mainly due to the omnipresence of condensation and the inability to provide sufficient warmth when the temps dipped. I found the silk liner to be the flexibility and utility one typically thinks a bivy would provide.

Bug spray and a bug net for your shelter or an enclosed shelter are a must for mosquitoes. Ticks can be a pain in some areas. A reliable rain coat is necessary for the roving thunderstorms in the summer, as well as the potential for snow. Please, consider at least one trekking for the creek crossings, which can be fierce to say the least. With the concern for the huge Sawtooth to Interstate 90 stretch, take an extra battery capable of at least 2 charges. Lastly, bring a beacon for that stretch, too. That long stretch one may not have cell service for at least 2 weeks, depending on resupply.

Chapter 9: Dreams from Overland

Idaho Centennial Trail 2022

Chapter 9:

Dreams from Overland

Finally, I stood out in the grand open, the immense space of the Bruneau Desert. I stood there out of shape, still recovering from a right foot and a left shoulder issue, in utter heartbreak from a tough past 7 months, and a recent bout of Covid. All of this had me nervous. Despite all this, I didn’t want to sleep any more. I needed my nightmares to end. I wanted my dreams to become real. I needed those two words, dreams and nightmares, to not mean one and the same thing. I really just needed to walk.

For some months now, I have been so tired I could stop dreaming. I have been a fool who was lulled to sleep by a sunken trap. My backbone has been broken holding up the weight of two people. My dreams have been warped, too. It has been like I have been sleeping but not sleeping; not awake but awake. I twist and squirm reliving recent events in distortion, in heartbreak, despair. But, all I wanted to do was sleep, to rest deeply, so as to wake up renewing what is lost, what has vanished, what died, amidst the crushing absence, to just move forward.

Out in the vastness, vulnerable, the storm went through me, the brittle wind passing within me, and, in my core, a calm fear settled within me. I, once again, felt raw, vulnerable, yet pulsing with blood. As much as I ached, I felt the surge of excitement in the unknown. I didn’t care that I was all those things above. I had to be present. Words and expressions boiled up and softened the callous around my heart. Goddam, I felt so alive to love again. This is me; this is the devil I love more than anything in life. This is just the beginning, I thought hopefully. I hiked on mainly trying to subdue my tears, trying to hold it all in. This is the beginning, I kept silently mouthing with my lips. Deep down I trusted that each step would crush the pain of heartbreak and that I could then again weather the physical storm and the emotional brittle wind.

[Tonight, under a mammoth moon, I sleep with the coyotes, their wails and yips welcoming me back. My tortuous mange is drying out; take me out of this fucking skin. I feel the urge of the mask of the wolf. By the end of this metamorphosis, you will recognize me as I once was. I will be that ghoulish dog howling at the full strawberry moon, my snore of life growling at the wild sky.]

I woke up in my frosty cocoon. The cold air had sunk. The full red moon rose high in the sky illuminating the Jarbidge Range skyline. I could clearly see the serrated ridges and pointy peaks. The snow line and glinty pockets gleamed like spindrift off a frothy rapid. The refulgent moon blocked out the stars, almost like the sun would. The moon hung heavy, and I thought that I love the moon more than anything in this life, this world. A meadowlark sang in the bright night melting my heart, as I intertwined my legs and shrunk my body against the biting cold. I spun over every so often as the moon’s arc slowly yawned to the west. The stars in the east then made a sparkling appearance, almost audibly twinkling. Fuck me, I just needed to be embraced by the night, crushed in a hug by the brightness of the moon, blanketed by the cold, smothered safely by the blackness. I felt security in this void, alone. In order to love again I need to love the very thing again that does not give a shit about me whatsoever, that is incapable of such in utter nature, the impossible gift.

——An interjecting preface burped up—— 

I do not need you to understand what I am trying to say. These words are the medium for what is bubbling up. I won’t hide it. The words follow the wavelengths of dispersing trails with each stride on this trail. I am heartbroken. It’s that simple. While I am out on this adventure I am processing recent events and how I am relating to this place, to nature, is a direct correlation of that heartbreak. I am walking it off. And, I feel the spirit that is rising. Any moment I am immersed in something that pulls at me I detach from myself, immediately zooming into the moment while being 10,000ft above at the same time, everything piqued, and I no longer obsess over me. I am out here because I want to change. I want to forgive, to feel grateful, to be less hurt and angry. I am out here because I want to love again. I need to molt this old callous and matted hair, this mange I am afflicted with. I want a new direction, a new openness where I am not afraid.

——I have hiccuped out away from that interjecting belch. I am ready now to euphemistically let it rip——

I woke up coated in condensation. I tried not to feel the cold, to touch it, for I did not want to shiver. Instead, I didn’t think about it, just packed up, put my hands in my pockets and plodded ahead with a purpose, with intent movement. The early light glowed softly atop the sagebrush florets. The glorious moon sank low to the west in a lavender glow seemingly more robust than she had been throughout the night. Low bellows of grazing cows came from the draw, the frost on the grass in meadows showing the last spots to warm up. I could see for endless miles in any direction. I walked on slowly drowning in the expanse, breathing slowly, listening to the sounds of the empty plateau.

Hours later, the sun began to bake the land. Spouts of dust sprung up from the toiling wind. My skin reddened, salt squeezed in my furrowed wrinkles by the side of my eyes, burning and stinging. I went into desert mode continuing to breathe slowly and controlled, keeping my mouth shut. I donned my buff on my head and visor to diminish the glare. I put on the mask, my usual uniform. The first 48 miles of the Idaho Centennial Trail, there is no water source, no shade, just barrenness and exposure. Yet as drab and dry the surrounding expanse was, the landscape changed. What was seemingly flat was actually rolling plains. The plants and brush changed from large field to large field, some of the more grassy barren areas fire scarred. The colors flowed in a blend of Spring’s brightness; what was normally brown was green and vibrant. Flowers bloomed brightly and showy, none other than the Indian paintbrush. My mood constantly changed, not the normal ‘steady as she goes’ ship. Seeing the subtle changes in such a flat landscape made me recall the philosophy of impermanence, of constant change, of time and matter, of moods and emotion, of nature and wilderness. I would glance back occasionally, or turn my head to the left, and see the Jarbidge Range changing shape under light and perspective over distance. How things can feel and seem familiar yet appear differently minutes later. I found this thought introspective and moving, and continued walking under a scorched earth slowly recalling the past few months.

At times I wasn’t sure what to do this past Spring. I drank excessively, feeling to reach a precipice after each pull. I went down darker paths within. Drowning, life seemed hopeless. Someone I thought had loved me didn’t anymore. Just that notion crushed me. Then, she disappeared without communicating anything. I was left with my dreams and love of her. I couldn’t see past the next day. I was willing to end it and run away to far flung places to hide. Yet, I still sank deeper than that. I swirled around within the eddy careening around each curve to a darker level. I felt hopeless, alone. Clearly, as I hiked on, I was still affected by this madness. I could only look back at it now in reflection rather than despise the moment that I had been sunk in when I was living it. I merely did not have the energy anymore to hate myself.

One hundred degree heat smothered the next 2 days. The nights were big and empty and cool, though. I prayed to the moon. I would rather be out here struggling and living in the moment than to be sitting in my own shit. I think if I had not had any of these long distance wanderings in my life, I would still be in my own wallow. I needed to look outside of myself. This was absolutely necessary that I instinctively believed in. Deep down I knew the act of walking would be my savior. I needed real and tangible pain other than some vanished love pain, something that felt fake and unreal, let alone something that felt personal.

In Hammett, at the PO, my package was not there. In some strange way, I was thrilled. I felt ecstatically the need to adapt. The curve ball pumped my blood, like in a survival situation. Granted it was not a survival situation. But, this adaptation provided me with purpose. I walked to the next town 8m away in 100 degree heat. I found a market, an RV park, and a restaurant in Glenns Ferry. I laid up in the shade, relaxed, my person full of kinks, damaged, and then let settle in my head the present concern —my IT band.

After some lounging and stretching filled my time at the RV park, I left early the next morning to beat the heat. My buddy, Handy, was to meet me at Highway 20, hike with me for 3 days over the highest point and snowiest pass of the ICT, then he would bikepack back to his car 140m. Needless to say, even with my gloom, I was looking forward to his company. Easy road miles ensued, yet still my IT band flared up even more. The flat roads, my being out of shape, starting out the gate too fast even though the quick pace was necessary, my body tightness, a recent cruddy bout with Covid—all of these factors contributed to this new-flared injury. I passed a rattlesnake on the road, dead. Someone ran it over, crushed its triangle head square, then clipped off the rattle. Yea, fuck it, I was emotional. I stopped to sit by the dead rattler. I petted its scales, softly caressing and tracing the scute patterns, the keratin spiky when nudged and flapped back. I stayed away from the head, but I felt its girth of the body, not rotten, just cool to the touch. I became transfixed in the squashed serpent’s eyes, its scaly pattern took me spiraling into a reptilian kaleidoscope. Deep down, I needed animal strength. 

I stood up and walked away. After about a hundred yards I finally looked back. A turkey vulture pecked at the long body of the snake and pulled stringy flesh from under the scales. So it goes, I thought. My pain became worse. I tried not to dwell or find a reason why this was happening. I just dealt with the pain straight up. I wanted to see what I could take in preparation for the foreseeable struggle. I did not medicate with anti-inflammatories. I just went on. I stopped often, trying to rest. I limited my strides, my pace slowed, I breathed deeply, yet my knee still would almost couple over. Finally, I got to the highway in the evening. Sitting on that side of the highway, I tried to hold it all in. I was hurting really bad, more or less writhing while leaning against the jersey barrier. I felt as dead as that snake on the road. My heart and head flattened, my imposing stanchions, my greatest gift, my legs, my rattler severed. I pensively contemplated hitching to the nearest town. I lamented the notion that I would have to bail, that I would be faced with a daunting decision that I would have no idea what I would do. Handy arrived about 45 minutes later. 

‘How ya doin?’

‘I’m…ok,’ I muttered, trying to conceal my grimace. 

Sometimes we need a friend to remind us of who we truly are. You can get so stuck in your own demise, your own head, that any type of feedback is rejected or any type of helpful introspection is lost. You are inevitably never alone. At least, that seems to be the case. Maybe you are alone in the physical, but, somewhere you are in someone's thoughts. Maybe not profoundly on someone's mind. Nevertheless, you are there somewhere. A friend who knows you can provide a mirror into yourself, to see how you may appear at the moment, or how someone sees you as. Handy immediately picked up on my insecure ambiguity. We got to a camp and perched the vehicle on a saddle adorned with granite spires resembling spires and skulls.

'Lower your mileage. You started out the gate too fast. Are you taking Advil?'

'Yea, I know you're right. I haven't taken anything.'

'Take some, dude. It's the blood flow that matters. Let's eat, have a couple beers, and get stoned. You'll be alright. You got time.'

I knew he was right. And, I knew all was right and going to be alright. The next morning, we started off slow. We took our time crossing the Camas prairie and rested every couple hours so I could stretch. The morning went by quickly and, soon enough, we hit a bonafide trail. Almost instantaneously, my knee began to feel better. No longer any flat roads and terrain. No longer any huge water carries, as well, that had forced me to hike at a quicker pace and for longer periods of time. The trail undulated and meandered through a soggy canyon, weaved and contoured up onto a ridgeline that overlooked into the Sawtooths. The biting wind caused us to take our mid-morning break on a tree covered saddle that obstructed our views. However, we had seen enough of the mountains to the north that the snow levels were not as inundated as we had expected. Snow, nonetheless, was present up in the deepest parts. Still quite a bit of it, too, just less than we had thought would be there. My knee felt tolerable, that I could endure the pain. We broke a tab of acid in half and popped each half into our mouths. We both knew that we had some long miles and a couple hours before anything too hairy. The temptation of letting myself slip out my skin pulled at me. To dive into the sounds of nature and to be consumed with my senses within that nature, the moment felt right. We spiraled and plunged down Virgina Gulch, the sudden drop in elevation shifting the pressure in my head. halfway down the gulch, the effects of the acid began. My ears popped and I delved into the pressure in my head feeling the stranglehold of the recent bout of Covid escaping. As if I was breathing it all out of me, I could see the air directly in front of me twinkle with pixelation. My head tingled. I forgot about my knee. I forgot about my heartbreak. I just tumbled down the gulch absorbing and soaking in the new air ballooning up from the river canyon below. At the Boise River, a large pack bridge spanned the mighty river. The bridge heaved and swayed with each step, the roar of the river cascading down the canyon pulsated within my body, the water drumming straight through me. I found a sandy spot by some boulders under a canopy of ponderosas. I plopped down and leaned against a large boulder. I emptied my backpack displaying my gear in a disorderly fashion. I gazed straight up into the tall canopy and followed the jigsaw puzzle pieces of bark all the way up a ponderosa trunk until the branches sprawled out into the sky. Silhouetted by the blue of the sky, I traced each stained fragment of the ponderosa and pondered the water traveling in the xylem and up the length of the tree from the roots to the needles. I could hear the light wind soughing through the trees. I could hear the ponderosas speaking to me. I inhaled the redolent air of vanilla, the odor evanescent of a bending tree in the wind and the pendulum arc of the sun above that exudes the aroma. I took in the aroma and traced, with my eyes, the aroma in the swaying canopy. inward from the needles and branches, down the thick red bark and navigated my way through the ventricles of the phloem all the way down to the roots. My trance stumbled at the sand in front of me. Suddenly, the roar of the river echoed again. I looked over at Handy and saw him talking to, or rather being spoken to, by a couple with an infant. I did not envy him, at that moment. I wasn't sure I could fumble any coherent words out of my mouth.

Up Willow Creek we went, my knee not up to snuff, as the sensation along the IT band came back. I could feel the pulse of the blood seething through the flared up area. I rubbed my upper hip, my side butt, and felt the mulched up area of the side, tight and mangled. The acid put me inside the hip and I was transported to the past Winter, to events of affliction, to depression. Then, the resounded creek boomed within a gorge. I snapped out of it. I wasn't as high as I was by the river, as the fuzzy sensation began to subside, like I was putting on a shirt over my head. I had lost track of time, but now I was 'here.' 

-- Snap!, like the fingers from a hypnotist --

This pass, Ross Peak Pass, would prove to be the crux. Could I make it with the IT band blaring? I decided to indulge in my surroundings, to focus on the present. The creek shook the canyon, cascading with such a ferocity the ground seemed to quake. I trembled with a slight adrenaline fix, mainly the tremors of nerves. The trail meandered snow free for a few miles. So, we trudged on swiftly, my knee starting to feel good on the ascent. Early evening shifted the shadows in the canyon, the temps still staying warm. Rays of sunlight angled in from the western ridges. At times, my vision would fast forward ahead in a montage of foot travel. I found myself careening up the trail while looking down at the top of my head, a coyote head. I saw my legs and paws digging into the dirt at a swift pace. I was still elevated, the drug still taking hold of me in waves. I would sink in and out of myself. Some moments, I would feel nervous, while other times I would be back in my uniform, the head of a coyote. I teetered between the wild within and the meekly person I had been. I did not trust the shape of my meekness, for the higher up we went, the less I forgot about it, squashing the memory of the indulgence of self. I entered the primordial and attached the coyote head with clips on my shoulders.

Handy hollered at me as I had just splashed cold water on my face. I looked at him vacantly and adjusted my vision. Handy looked over at me at the snow line around 8,000ft and said, ‘let’s go for the pass.’ I nodded back, growling from within. I held my teeth from showing. We busted through the snow crust on top of the mounds and fields of old snow. We ambled along rather efficiently. The conditions were primo for hiking up the endless snow. Once in motion, I was not as reluctant as the initial thought of achieving the pass had seemed. I relied on my instincts, for I was not seeing anything I have not seen before. Really, the situation felt minorly stressful other than my flared up knee and hip. Flashes of my fragility would cross my stance in front of me with each blink, my lack of strength and confidence colored each flash with a white and glaring light. Then, another blink. I had the coyote head on. Everything went black. Back and forth, with each plodding step upward, I started to gear more and more towards the blackness. I committed more and more to the void. I had to. Then, we hit it—the flow, the trudge, the toil, the work and play, the focus, the heat and the pulse.

[Just when you think it won’t, it will. Just when you think you can’t, you’ll deal.]

I need to do hard shit. I crave it, yearn for it. I simply need to keep pushing myself. I absolutely must live strenuously. I may be broken, but I will give it my fucking all; my body will give what I ask of it.

[You still think I’m here to save?]

Whatever hole I am in I will dig myself out of that fucking hole. I must believe I will get my strength back. I must believe I will attain balance again.

[You’re jaded.]

My heart races. My thighs pump, my eyes squint. My knee is screaming. My blood is sand.

[You are nothing.

Did she…]

I refuse to be in this space of mind I have been in. I must believe I will love again. I must believe I will thrill in living in this moment again. I refuse to give in to whatever obstacle is in front of me. My IT band is crushing me, burning me up from the inside. 

[Embrace the process; some assembly required.]

The obstacle is the way. I refuse to give in, to just drift away. I will wander with intent. I believe movement and momentum will guide me.

[I am a rock beast.]

[I am waking up.]

I saw the silhouette of Handy at the pass. I was near, just a few more grunts. At the pass, I embraced Handy. This is the simple thing I live for. I welled up, trying to keep my cool, but I was overwhelmed. 

[I am awake…]

The fuzzy feeling had worn off. The surrounding peaks of the Sawtooths gleamed in the evening dayglow. An ecstatic feeling warmed over me and I felt exhilarated. Tucked up in this formidable pocket of granite deep snow hunkered in the surrounding bowls and forests. Snow held our vision as far as our eyes could see. Handy dove off the pass and plunge-stepped his way down to the flat spot of the cirque. I followed shortly and would stop occasionally to soak in the views more. Puffy clouds appeared gray as the sun began to set in the western sky, the clouds capping off the day with a sleepy glow. Next, we caromed side to side through slushy snow through the forests. We skated along swiftly in between the hanging valleys until we hit the final steep cliff that terminated as a headwall of the valley. We picked our way down, as shadows became longer in the dark forest. We needed at least 15 minutes of dusk to hold strongly for us the remaining soft light. Handy scooted down a snow bank and crossed the creek along the slick log. I, not as brave as Handy, found a snow bridge and made my way into a soggy meadow. Cold air sunk into the forests and clung to the tufts of grass in the meadows. We sped along a soggy trail trying to beat the night. Luckily, the days are long this time of year.

'When the trail's a river, there's snow up high...,' I bellowed in a low and rather amusingly yet non-melancholic voice. 

'What song is that?'

'I made it up, ' I giggled.

'It's good; I like it.'

We found the driest meadow we could find in the closing hour of dusk and tucked our tarps closest to the trees for whatever little warmth we would get from the pines. Handy started a quick fire to warm our soggy feet and nippy hands up. We breathed in the smoke and I put a tired smile on my face. Soon enough, we stamped out the fire and headed to our bed rolls. After a very long and adventurous day -- head-tripping and stunning scenery and all that -- needless to say, my spirit was peeling up.

We slept in. Rather, I wasn’t going to get up until I needed to. I was warm and didn’t want to fight the bite of the morning air. I was exhausted from the previous day. But, I felt great, like that good type of exhaustion, the feeling one gets from a tremendous effort from a job well done. I found myself lowering my buff on my brow to provide my tired bones with darkness. I rolled over and sunk my head into my quilt. I floated in and out of dreams, good dreams unlike the nightmares from this past Winter. I had never slept in like this on trail. Suddenly, I felt an incredible warmth on my back. The sun had peeked over the craggy ridge line 3,000ft above and the first rays zoomed into the meadow we were camped in. Ah fuck me, I had never felt warmth like that. The warmth went right through my quilt, then my fleece, and finally through my rib cage to toast my heart. I now wanted to jump up and tackle the day! I felt loved with the sunshiny embrace. We skipped down the trail, really, I skipped down the trail. I found a spring pumping up from the ground. 

I yelled at Handy, ‘Hey! A cold spring!’

Handy more or less shrugged as I raised my voice again. ‘Never pass up a good spring, I always say!’ We sauntered on. I sang to myself the dirge I had come up with, but cheerfully .

‘When the trail is a river, 

There’s snow up high…’

I came up with goofy lyrics that made me laugh. In the end, I settled up thinking about my aphorisms. ‘Never pass up a good spring, I always say. I also always say, never pass up a good shitter. Even if you got water, drink up from the earth; even if you don’t have to shit, just try and grunt one out, just sit on the throne for 5 minutes.’ Time just splintered away as we galloped down trail. 

I said goodbye to Handy where he had stashed his bike. We had a beer each and parted ways. Handy sped off cranking the pedals on his bike. I took a less snowier alternate into Stanley. I knew I needed rest and time for the knee and hip. I needed to play it safe, to be a little conservative with my overworked body. I couldn’t risk the whole hike for a prideful decision. Besides, I had hiked the first half of the ICT in ‘15. I had seen that section before and I was stoked to see other parts of the Sawtooths. Content with my decision, I walked on alone. I was very grateful for my time with Handy, a dear friend. The pain in the knee and spending time with a friend reminded me of what I am good at, of what I can excel at, and, most importantly, that I can deal with physical pain. I am good at it. I can endure it. I just had not been familiar with a profound heartbreak like I had just experienced. 

Stanley, Stanley sucked me in. I walked in in time for breakfast. I was pleased with myself for getting this far. Shit, I didn’t think I was moving past Highway 20 when my knee got so bad. But, here I was looking for food, scanning the town for my needs, and looking forward to resting and recuperating the flared knee. After breakfast, I found my hotel. The room wasn’t ready, so I went seeking lunch, but not before asking about my package. The box wasn’t there. Another mishap, and I gulped in frustration. I didn’t let this get me down, and immediately went into planning a course of action. I called my buddy from home who had checked my PO Box and recovered my Stanley resupply box. Most importantly, in that box were the Frank Church Wilderness maps. I conversed with my buddy about what to do. I couldn’t wait out the whole weekend as I had limited time to be on the ICT to begin with. Automatically, staying in Stanley for the three rest days would put me two days behind schedule and I would be late to return to work. I went all in. This is a crucial moment. I pushed my chips all in and forked over a pretty expensive overnight shipment of the box. We reasoned out I would spend that much on groceries in Stanley for the long haul ahead of me and, since I couldn’t find maps in Stanley, shipping the box overnight made sense. I needed to have those maps. The maps were a safety measure, a back up in case my electronics failed, provided escape options in case of wildfire or flooded trail, and gave me a sense of security. The maps were critical for going into the massive wilderness complex with no cell reception for 17 days. 

I sat at the bar the next day around lunch time waiting for the box. I got a notification that it had been delivered. I retrieved it and sorted my food and maps. I went back to the bar, maps in hand. I unfolded the maps and dove into the maps and the endless land of the Frank. I followed the thick blue wavy lines, the branches of the mighty Salmon interlinked deep, deep canyons. I fell in love all over again with the process of exploration. Map reading and dreaming is, to me, one of the first steps of fulfilling a walking curiosity. At this point, I recognized the journey I was on. I had fully committed, all the way in. A beautiful woman sat down next to me at the bar. She struck up a pleasant conversation. I was nervous, as I hadn't spoken to a woman in a long time. I had been so isolated in recent months, so damaged, the mere thought of conversing with a woman scared the shit out of me. I couldn't fathom communicating with my trauma so on the surface of my heart. I ordered another beer, drinking this one even faster than the one before. We began asking questions of each other. She was a yoga instructor, a breath coach, and a well traveled and sophisticated woman, a fellow traveler. She was curious about me and I could hardly believe it. I hadn't been asked a question about 'me' in so long. I excitedly spoke of the hike, energy oozing from my gesticulations and mannerisms. I had engaged after my nerves creased and folded to a place I could not remember. My emotions began to swirl with each swill. 

[She taught me to breathe again. I cannot make the same mistake again. My heart was broken.]

Breathe

[Forget the past. I fell into a marriage I shouldn't have been in. I chose the adventure of the notion of love rather than love itself.]

You know how to breathe

[I chose emotional excitement over the purpose of love.]

I must breathe

[She showed me the depth of breath, the practice.]

Again. Slowly

[Yes, this is not the first time my heart has been broken. I just thought there was nothing left.]

Deeply 

[And, then I found her, found the one I would spend the rest of my life with. I’m still severed; she quit us.]

Breathe forever

The afternoon progressed in a sloshing and clinking manner. My head twirled. I felt my cheeks redden, my spirit swelled in feeling a sense of freedom of adventure. I breathed and laughed from the belly deep within. That night, we danced to a rock cover band. About all I can recall was the carousel of dancing that ensued, the swaying with the music, the Steely Dan cover. Then, I woke up alone, an empty beer can had toppled over in my armpit area, my chest hair matted. Infomercials rang out from the television. Was it all just a dream. I sought darkness and smushed a pillow over my head. I tried to forget that place where my nerves had slunk to. I thought how can I manage so well in the wilds, yet be so goofy in the world. I wanted my mask back on and I needed to rove again. Nevertheless, I fought the hangover and tried to focus on breathing. I zeroed in on my instincts. My mind cleared as I tried to swallow away the pain, a low lilt rang in my head, the cadence of a trilling whisper...  

'Your everlasting summer and you can see it fading fast

So you grab a piece of something that you think is gonna last

Well, you wouldn't even know a diamond if you held it in your hand

The things you think are precious I can't understand'