The Continental Divide Trail: A Cancer Survivor’s Magical Trail in the Great Divide Basin

Life is a gift horse

«No tree can grow to heaven unless its roots grow to hell.»

—Carl Jung

tHere’s a magic shop in Rawlins. I’m not going to say where it is because anyone who has a good eye for these things will be able to spot it right away, but I will tell you that it is disguised as an antique store. Having lost my hat in the back seat on our last trip, I was looking for a replacement. The Magic Item Shop looked promising, so I entered. I tried on a traditional East Asian hat made of fine bark and bamboo, but it was missing a chin strap, so I chose a black felt hat with a barely wide enough brim. I paid $20 cash for it and noticed a sign that said Absolutely no refunds as you walk out the door.

I didn’t like the hat and it started to tighten around my head shortly after I left the store. When we got to the post office I was about to crush my skull.

There are absolutely no refunds.

Ice Cream wanted a Coke, so I took my new hat to a nearby gas station where, to my delight, they sold straw hats with huge brims and solid chin straps. But, while I may be a man of many hats, I cannot be a man of two hats, especially if one is haunted and antagonistic. I took it to the magic items store. The old wizard who had sold it to me was still sitting in his Muggle clothes behind the counter. He noticed the straw hat on my head and the fedora in my hand and raised an eyebrow, but before he could say Absolutely no refunds, I said, «Look, I know I’m not going to get my money back for this, but I think I’d be happier if I left it here.»

He nodded knowingly with pursed lips. «I was hoping it would be a good match, it seemed like you might be grumpy enough, but that old man is notoriously grumpy.»

I lifted the fedora and twirled it in my hands, without saying anything.

The magician-employee said, «I’ll tell you what, it’s half my fault for letting you try it. I’ll give you back half of what you paid.»

«I would be grateful, sir. Thank you.»

He reached into his dusty, rusty desk and pulled out a crumpled $10 bill with some sharp marks and highlighter all over Hamilton’s face. «Don’t spend it all in one place.»

«I might have to, given inflation what it is.»

He smiled and nodded; I turned around, walked past the no refunds sign, and walked out the door. Ice Cream was waiting outside like it had been the first time I walked in. She herself is not without magic and can sense when dark things inhabit a place. But they don’t call her what they call me. She’s more of a unicorn type. Gremlins are more my type, as Animal Cracker had already pointed out.

***

And we left Rawlins and went back to Basin. The clouds were a steel gray color and the ground was dotted with puddles and muddy clay from the recent rains. We camped that night in a grass nest next to a giant pile of debris: twisted steel, spent ammunition casings, and trash. Somewhere the locals came to blow off steam, drink, and shout at the sky when the weight of Wyoming’s nothingness began to weigh too much. That night no locals came and we slept under the watchful eye of the humming power lines.

In the morning, as we were leaving, Ice Cream said, «Look at the power poles. Some are men and some are girls.»

«That?» I looked up, not knowing what he meant. But she was right. Something in their shapes. Two types, one with wide, hip-like bases, and others with wide, muscular upper parts. Masculine and feminine enough that if these two shapes were placed in a set of public bathrooms it would be clear which is which. I tried to imitate their shapes as I walked, now my hips swaying, now my arms outstretched and my chest puffed out, and it became hilariously obvious what Ice Cream was seeing in the shapes of the power lines. She laughed at me as I tried these shapes, a sound more beautiful than the echo of a bird’s song.

The sky was still gray and it smelled like rain that never touched the ground.

Miles later, I suddenly realized I had to take a shit. Brutally, and there was supposed to be a small lake up ahead with some Durkin’s cabins. I pinched and walked until Ice Cream said, «Zen, I think we missed a turn.»

We had. So we walked towards the lake, which is easy to do in the basin as the bushes are thin and the terrain is half open land anyway. We found ourselves looking out over the lake from a high hill and followed a cow trail down. There were picnic tables under the pavilions and a couple of squat concrete droppings decorated with empty swallow nests made of mud and bird saliva.

When Durkin finished, we walked on, passing empty ponds and stubble-covered hills. The sun tried to come out from behind the gray but it didn’t last long. Then we hit another long road and took it across the country, following it like an apocalyptic, cracked Bifröst. We saw Trip and another hiker flying by in the bed of a pickup truck and wondered what mischief they were up to. Shortly after, Ice Cream’s foot began to hurt, something she could empathize with since she had been suffering through what seemed like thousands of miles of foot pain. He took his only dose of painkillers for the entire ride, and after a break for the NSAIDs to take effect, we continued on.

Friendly men in trucks stopped from time to time and offered us water or beer, which we gratefully drank. An old man, Jim, stopped to talk to us. He was in his seventies or eighties and was wearing one of those military vet caps, blue with words embroidered in yellow declaring his place in history. «I’ve got a big cooler of water about six miles away. You’ve got some steep climbs on the way before you get there, but you’ll see. Just fill it up and put ice in it. Nice cold water.»

«Thank you, Jim. I have to ask. Why are you doing this?»

«I don’t know,» Jim tugged at the brim of his hat. «I climbed the PCT back in the ’60s. I guess if you follow that line of thinking long enough, that’s why.»

«Makes sense,» Ice Cream said.

«I guess so,» Jim said. “You two take care of yourselves.”

Jim jumped into his truck and disappeared into the night, his angel wings flapping in the breeze behind his truck that groaned like old, battered tarps.

We slept that night near Jim’s water tank, behind some low bushes near the road. As the last light faded, we heard footsteps along the path. It was all of you.

“All of you!” I called. «What’s up buddy?»

«Hello everyone! Are you camping here tonight?»

«Are.»

«Do you mind if I join?»

We didn’t do it. They found a spot not far away and we chatted in the bushes as the sun set. There’s something comforting about sleeping next to a good water source in a place like the basin, even if it’s just a cooler hidden on the side of the road, maybe especially if it’s a cooler hidden on the side of the road.

***

In the morning we woke up, everyone and I shared a little waking and baking, then we hit the road. As usual, he overtook us pretty quickly and we were alone again. Yesterday’s clouds had disappeared and the sun was golden in the cool morning.

We walk. I drove past the carcasses of roadkill rattlesnakes, past campsites filled with RVs and ATVs. We walked over hills and crossed bridges that spanned nothing but empty washing places. And then, where the road joins the trail, we found a blue and white emerging canopy. Underneath were coolers, a folding table and chairs, all with dirty people sitting on them.

Trail magic!

Chupadogra was there, along with a few others we’d met once or twice before, and some new hikers we hadn’t met yet.

This angel’s name was Rick. The previous Thursday, Rick was cancer-free and this was his celebration. As we drank his soft drinks and ate his snacks and fruit, Rick regaled his flock of hikers with his stories of being imprisoned in China, being held hostage by Guatemalan rebels, and trekking through the lost and lonely muskegs of Alaska. He also won the triple crown somewhere in that country and worked as a consultant for ExxonMobil. «You have no idea how much money they are willing to spend on their public image,» he said conspiratorially. He raised a finger. «But in the end, what they care about is one thing: Does a project provide a 15% to 20% return on investment?»

We nodded in general agreement that the world was screwed, but we made no promises to change it. In the end, we all like to live in a world with cars, buses and airplanes, even if certain evils and tragic deaths are implicit in that world. How else could we be eating bananas and oranges in the middle of Wyoming? Ice Cream bit into a slice of orange and its juice ran down her chin. She cleaned it. The conversation moved on to other things. Rick knew when to pass the mic and let the hikers mingle.

On the table was a pair of Bose headphones, apparently lost by someone, no one knew who. After a roundtable discussion with the other hikers, I agreed to take them with me and return them to their owners if I ever found them. I was hoping not to and could try them.

Then there was more than usual. Drinks, ice cream, snacks.

Reluctantly, we left Rick and his delights and headed back into the hills.

After Rick, the land changed. The rolling hills of the basin suddenly gave way to pine-filled hills. Snow-capped mountains began to loom here and there in the distance at the edge of the horizon. Colorado was approaching.

We continue walking. Later, Chupadogra approached from behind with his border collie Quasar. A man in a hunting suit and a German shepherd approached from the front. The shepherd focused on Quasar and the hunter grabbed him by the collar. Chupadogra gave a sharp order to Quasar, who turned around and approached him. He lifted it over his shoulders and wore it like a scarf. The shepherd was not well trained in giving orders, but he had respect for humans and his energy returned to friendly once Quasar was aloft. After the possible dog fight, Chupa returned Quasar to the ground. Together they faded before us, Chupa with his steady steps, Quasar spinning around them again in unpredictable circles like a wild electron around a stable nucleus.

We camped that night in the middle of a humid forest that could well have been the Bob Marshall. There was a clear, cold current and everything. Chupa camped nearby, along with a few others. One knew the owners of the lost headphones. I asked him some probing questions to see if he really had them and then handed them to him. Too bad for me, but good for them. Not all goods are mutual goods, but in the end, does that matter?