Thorns, Aliens and Bombs: Guadalupe Peak, TX (0.0) to Portales, NM (257.9)

Leaving the summit behind

Descending Guadalupe Peak, I immediately found myself in company.

Several hikers had the same idea for New Year’s Day: reach the top of the highest point in Texas and then return to warm cars and hearty, hot meals. When I came down, they were still fresh, still smiling, still talking about what they would do after the hike.

They happily took my photo in front of the Guadalupe Mountains National Park sign. I smiled back, knowing I didn’t have an «after.» I only had the north.

I stopped by the Pine Creek Visitor Center. again after going down the mountain. This time it was closed for holidays.

No problem. The outdoor bottle filler still worked and I filled my Smartwater bottles.

Luxury is relative.

Guadalupe Crest Trail

From there, I walked down the road toward McKittrick Canyon, but luck intervened. I was able to walk along the old abandoned road that runs parallel to the modern highway: cracked pavement, weeds pushing through, history slowly regaining its lane.

At the outdoor visitor building, I charged my phone for a bit, then left all civility behind and continued my route directly up the mountainside to connect with the Guadalupe Ridge Trail.

Calling it a trail is generous.

The Guadalupe Ridge Trail was on the map, which is a bold thing for something that seems to have been abandoned to thorns, time, and indifference.

I followed a weak, overgrown trail cut, which kept me from getting lost but did nothing to stop me bleeding. The looting was constant. There were thorns everywhere. Yucca. Chola. Barrel cactus. Creosote. mesquite. The entire arsenal of the desert.

A thorn, about the length and shape of a hawk’s claw, pierced the sole of my shoe.

Alas, it doesn’t quite cover it.

But this was the adventure I had signed up for and I was determined to endure whatever came my way.

Springs, hunters and not dying of thirst

The springs were marked on my map of Gaia and I confirmed with a couple of local hunters that they were still working.

They were.

Every time he needed water, he went down the slopes, filtered what he found, and went back up: an inefficient, but effective system. In the desert you take what works, even if that means drinking with the cows.

White City: Chimichangas and resident foreigners

Wandering through Whites City, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it outpost anchored by a former general store doing its best to hold the frontier together.

I cooked frozen chimichangas in their microwave, claimed a seat outside with a Baja Blast, and performed my first full shakedown. Everything that did not deserve sustenance was condemned to exile and sent home in a Priority mailbox.

The package was stripped down to the essentials, recalling the Doolittle Raid, when flight crews shed every unnecessary gram just to take off from a runway that barely qualified as such. Same idea. Different bets.

There was also a photo taken with the local aliens parked outside the store.

It seemed appropriate.

road archeology

Back on Highway 180 toward Carlsbad, the landscape shifted toward “highway archaeology”: abandoned houses, out-of-service gas stations, rusting trucks slowly surrendering to time.

As I walked, I began to notice the remains of movement: license plates, rusty keys and hammers, bungee cords, a purse with a price tag still attached, and paper inside.

Once, once, I found a twenty dollar bill.

The trail provides.

reality of the road

Outside, trucks passed with long metallic whistles, the air flexing and receding each time one passed. The fuel carriers moved forward heavy and low, exhaling the pungent, oily smell of freshly refined gas that stuck to the back of their throats. The road never really slept. It only stopped between convoys.

Walking the road is not the part of hiking that appears on calendars or coffee mugs. There is no cathedral silence, no mossy silence, no illusion of having gone back in time. This is not a walk in communion with nature. It is about proximity hiking. Pavement underfoot. Railings. Headlights. The uncomfortable awareness that civilization is whizzing by at seventy miles an hour as you inch north at three.

It’s not for everyone either. Some hikers want to distance themselves from the world. It demands tolerance for noise, smells, and the vulnerability of sleeping where the margin between “camp” and “traffic” is a few cautious steps.

The nights came wrapped up against any shelter that the landscape offered. A shoulder-high strip of gravel. A warped barbed wire fence that hummed faintly in the wind. I once lay near some train tracks that seemed pretty quiet, until a freight train roared by at two in the morning, its horn shattering the first decent stretch of REM sleep. Heart racing. Eyes wide open. The body was already prepared to move.

And yet, for all its abrasiveness, walking down the road carries a strange electric thrill. The towns appear without ceremonies. Conversations happen accidentally. Restaurants and gas stations shine like beacons.

This part of the walk is not gentle, but it is honest. Sharpens awareness. It eliminates romance and replaces it with drive. It’s not the hike most people imagine. It’s still a big part of my trip to Alaska. Still full of surprises.

Trail Angel Jamie (again)

Once in Carlsbad, Jamie (my Uber driver turned trail angel) gave me a nighttime tour of the city. Cinema room. Historical buildings. Stories that only locals know.

We ate Mexican food downtown and caught up like old friends.

The morning came with caffeine as the first priority. We visited Roque Burritos for a good cup of coffee and burritos buried under fresh pico de gallo.

Jamie unrolled a stack of old New Mexico road maps on the table, their paper yellowed with age and wrinkled at the edges, and together we plotted my route out of Carlsbad.

Then came the practical tasks. Laundry. A stop at Jamie’s house to buy some weird stuff. Then lunch at the legendary Lucy’s, one last civilized meal before the road claims me.

He dropped me back at the hotel in the afternoon, with my backpack repacked, the route marked and the next stretch of miles already drawing my attention. I turned on my Garmin tracker where I left it and started walking out of town.

That night, I camped stealthily just beyond the city limits, with the Carlsbad sign glowing behind me in the distance.

Artesia, Fallout Shelter and ‘Water Mills’

I resupplied in Artesia, a small town along Highway 285 anchored by a Sinclair refinery. The history of oil runs deep here: families tied to drilling, refining and the long boom-and-bust pace of energy work.

Jamie saw me again and spent a few hours driving around town with me, telling me the backstory that doesn’t always appear on road signs. One stop took us to Abo Elementary School and the Fallout Shelter, built in the early 1960s at the height of Cold War anxiety.

Back then, cities like Artesia were quietly preparing for the unthinkable. The shelter was stocked with rations, water canisters, and civil defense supplies, intended to house students and locals if the atomic age ever moved from theory to reality. A small town, a big fear, poured into cement and buried underground.

Down here the water doesn’t come from the rivers. It comes from Watermill Express, a kiosk where, for thirty-five cents, you get a gallon of purified water. I perfected the art of catching the quick squirt in four uncapped bottles without getting myself or the sidewalk wet or soaked.

Skill acquisition happens quickly along the way.

Hagerman ‘Magic’

Hagerman developed haphazardly, as trail towns sometimes do. Lasagna came first. Italian restaurant Piccolina delivered a heavy, unapologetic portion—the kind of food you eat when you know tomorrow’s miles will take a lot out of you.

After that, I walked into Allsup’s, where I ran into a guy who had hiked the Pacific Crest Trail. The recognition was instantaneous. No explanations needed. Without hesitation, it covered all of my snacks and drinks like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Magic of the trail. Plain and simple.

Nearby Dexter was mostly a ghost town, sun-faded and half-asleep, except for a bar called Nothing Fancy.

He lived up to his name.

Rivers, Roswell and tinfoil hats

The Pecos River passed as if it had places to be, wide and unhurried, bearing the weight of a long memory. Once again, Jamie lifted me by the shoulder, Garmin stopped, and we turned toward Roswell.

Foreigners everywhere. Flying saucers bolted to store windows. The story of the crash site laminated, marketed and repeated with absolute sincerity. Tinfoil hats worn with conviction.

We ate at the Cowboy Café, a place located somewhere between a roadside diner and a local landmark.

Bottomless lakes and goodness of trails

At Bottomless Lakes State Park, I met Patrick and his dog, camping in a truck at a site. Patrick let me pitch my tent in the back of his reserved spot to save me the ten dollar fee.

The ranger passed by and mentioned that he had seen me walking along the road the day before and had already figured out that I was doing something bigger than a walk in the park. The ranger encouraged me.

Kindness travels silently here.

Oil and gas country

Walking down dusty Ponderosa Road, I entered the oil patch in earnest: bombs on both sides, hundreds of them, nodding day and night.

Pumpjacks nod like tired horses. Small oil facilities in the middle of nowhere: some humming, some dead, and all seem to have forgotten what year it is.

The land here looks open and half-abandoned, like someone started something big and then just… . . he walked away. Wind, dust, long, straight horizons, and machinery scattered across the landscape, still claiming space, whether it’s working or not.

Oil does not appear by chance. Crews installed platforms. Drill. Case. Bomb. Refine. Different teams, different shifts. Lights on during the night.

Portals at last

Jamie met me one last time outside of Portales, along Highway 70. We dined like royalty at Cattle Baron and toasted with salty tequila shots.

When I finally got to town, my feet and calves were barking. It was cold. Windy. My nose was running non-stop.

I checked into the Sands Motel, got pizza at Simple Simon’s, and replenished at the dollar store.

That night I met Misty, who works at Eastern New Mexico University and is deeply involved in the local community. I agreed to an interview with her and a newspaper photographer.

His questions were pointed. Considered. Inevitable.

Speaking my reasons, out loud, forced me to recommit to the deeper purpose of this walk. Not just finish. Not just resistance. But clarity. Attention. The discipline needed to keep going when the novelty wears off and discomfort becomes routine.

That’s what will matter when the miles to Alaska get long.

And they will.