The dark side
«I’m altering the deal. Please don’t alter it further.»
— Darth Vader, The Empire Strikes Back
W.We walked through the quiet neighborhood streets filled with whimsical houses and kids on electric bikes until we reached a long driveway that led to our tracker angel’s house. It was a two-story place with a garage and complex roof. Trip had already been there and guided us and gave us the tour, even offering Ice Cream and I a single guest room, which we took after telling them we’d be fine in the garage. She insisted, we accepted. But we couldn’t reach the room. Without the owner of the house, the house dog was on guard. It looked like part of Akita, so it’s not surprising. He wasn’t aggressive, but when I tried to climb the stairs from the garage to the upstairs living room, he would stand at the top and growl. It definitely wasn’t about playing. Fortunately, the owner had introduced Trip to the dog and allowed her to pass, and me with her. Later, the guard dog warmed up, but never completely until the owner returned.
Two other dogs were in the house. Quasar, who was Chupadogra’s faithful companion, and Tractor, an unnamed border collie mix Trip had found in the mountains. She had been working on finding her owners for days without success. His necklace was from Tractor Supply and that’s all she knew about him. I told him that if he ran out of options I would take him to Mexico and find him a home along the way. It’s not the best option for him, but it’s better than a shelter.
Tractor really could have been my dog. I train my dogs hard and expect a lot from them, as much or more than Chupadogra expects from Quasar. Tractor was sweet enough and well trained enough that becoming my dog wouldn’t have taken long. Strong, friendly, adventurous. But it wasn’t like that. Sharon agreed to keep him and continue searching, and a few days later he found his way back to his owners. Although sometimes I wonder if it was really lost. Maybe he just went on a hike.
We sat in the garage for a while and talked. Ice Cream and I enjoyed watching Trip and Chupadogra’s personal jokes. We had a lot of our own and it was fun to see what it looked like from the outside.
Chupa was boiling hot dogs in his pot. Trip said, «Are you going to drink the sausage water?»
Chupa looked serious. «I always drink the sausage water.»
«What’s up with Quasar? Get some of your sausage water?»
«Quasar loves my sausage water.»
They tried to keep a straight face during this conversation, but their lips curled at the edges and their faces seemed tense. Chupa said something about bald eagles that didn’t connect with Ice Cream or me, but it made Trip laugh, which made us laugh anyway. And that was it. We sleep. Tractor stayed in the guest room with Ice Cream and me. We wanted to see if we could vibe in case I had to take it to Mexico.
The next day passed quickly. Sharon took us back to the trailhead and told us about the long and storied history of Steamboat Springs along the way. «Skiing became popular here after ski-trained World War II veterans started coming here to pursue the sport. Turns out they liked it. The ski culture grew out of that. I’ve lived here my whole life and it’s been a great town. Close-knit, the kind of community you can raise your kids in. Happy American life, but that’s changing.»
«What’s changing it?» I continued the podcast as his small car drove up the steep road out of town. Below was Steamboat and Sharon was able to give us an aerial view as she spoke, like a general over a map of the terrain.
He waved his hand over the valley. «There, see that road? It’s being built to support a lot of the rich people who are moving there.»
“Weren’t there always rich people?”
«Yes, but this is a lot of money. They are buying a lot, making big changes. They say those changes help the community, but if you look at what they are doing, what roads they are building, everything helps them. If it helps the community, that is secondary and debatable.»
«Same story everywhere, I guess.»
“I guess,” Sharon said. «It sucks to see my childhood home change like this. It used to be a place where people could live. Real people. How is my son going to be able to afford a house here?»
I had no response, nor did Ice Cream, Trip or Chupa. We arrived at the beginning of the trail we had left from. “You can leave us here,” I told Sharon. The four of us had decided to follow the paved section to the dirt road. A yellow fire of approximately five kilometers. I was all about it. Ice Cream gave him his reluctant blessing.
Sharon wasn’t having any of that. «The trail is up here. Continuous footsteps, right?»
We had already passed the highway trailhead. We all let Sharon set the red line for us. It would only add a mile or two before the red line crossed the road again anyway.
When we got there we started walking with our thumbs out. There were a lot of cars passing by, so I got aggressive with the requests. I waved, I smiled, I blew kisses, I shot finger guns. A white Ford Ranger stopped. It was piloted by a neat, gray-haired guy. We did the usual thing, he agreed to take us down the dirt road. I mounted shotgun and the other three hikers settled into the bed of the truck.
The guy was great. Chatty, a section hiker. He pointed to the rabbit ears and mentioned that one of them had recently broken. «Not far after I drop you off, you’ll be heading over Troublesome Pass. Be prepared for the worst explosions you’ve ever seen.»
«That would be something extraordinary. We’ve seen a lot of bad purge sections.»
I wasn’t fazed. «It’s the worst. I tried to contact the CDTC to get them to do something about it. They didn’t give a shit.»
“They should bring Banana Runts here,” I mused.
«WHO?»
«Trail maintenance watchman. He would take care of everything.»
The guy shrugged and stopped. The truck’s tires crunched and we bounced over some shallow ruts. «This is it. That path is the path.»
We continued along the path, joking as we went. Somehow we got to the types of boa constrictors. One was called Disco Ball Python. We decided that it did not say whistle but utz utz instead. Than the beats.
An old caravan lay abandoned on the side of the bare brown hills. The paved road snaked below like a disco ball python, its yellow column a capillary of the American dream, now threatened in more ways than one. The trailer had a wooden podium in front and a small wooden sign that said Welcome to the Dark Side. As we approached, an alarm sounded. A potbellied man with gray hair walked out the door and pressed a button. The alarm stopped and he waved. «Hey! Don’t let the motion sensor scare you. That’s how I make sure I don’t miss you!»
Magic of the trail. But what kind? We had just left town. Trail Angels, make sure that if you want hikers to be as happy as possible to see them, take them a day or two between cities. Right after and just before, our stomachs are full and gratitude is more tense. Not quite performative, but perhaps less visceral.
Turns out Dark Side only had a trail log, some water that tasted like the city, and some time-hardened oatmeal cookies. But we signed his log, took his gifts with gratitude, and let him talk. «I’ve had a great time hanging out here. First, the authorities kicked me out, told me I was providing illegal services. Then I had to email three people, go through a lot of gibberish, visit some offices, email again, fill out some forms explaining what trail magic is, and finally they let me do this.»
I thought about the rich people moving to the city (people who could afford to cross the CDT in palanquins instead of walking if they wanted) and wondered if they were putting up the first forms of bureaucratic stone walls to protect themselves from the big unwashed. Perhaps the Steamboat area had been immunizing itself against vagrants for a long time. Skiing attracts two types, I hear. Those who have money and those who have nerve, both lovers of that new meeting.
We continue. Trip and Chupa caught up with us and again Ice Cream and I were alone. Our only companions are dust and cattle, and we’ll have to climb back up to see if Troublesome Pass would live up to its name.
