Fire in the Mountains
- By Javier Espinosa
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- 24 May, 2016
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Sweat pours from my brow, falling and dampening the hard shell of a camera. I take a deep breath of the cool AC and continue to hold the cameras in front of the vent. The temp gauge reads 103 degrees. My campsite for tonight is 3 hours west of here. "Well damn, I’m not willing to accept defeat just yet."
I clear the sand from my sneakers, hoist my pack and trek on out into the desert once again.
I arrived at my location quicker than last- I knew where my spot was. Bag is dropped, zippers open, equipment assembles, and I wait.
During my trek back to the truck I fantasize of heat exhaustion. I play with my eyes rolling to the back of my head and stumble over a dune like you see in the movies.
Back on the highway, the road sinks into the desert and is bumpy from the weight of the oil rigs blasting by. They come barreling down the road, trailed by a dozen trucks. You can spot the burn off from the road every quarter mile. heavy heat swells surge from the flames, and I ride on this torched lined road.
I begin to make out the mountains along the state border. They come and go as I dip over the hills and swerve through the blasted rock. My lungs choke on the air. Fire.
I arrived at my location quicker than last- I knew where my spot was. Bag is dropped, zippers open, equipment assembles, and I wait.
During my trek back to the truck I fantasize of heat exhaustion. I play with my eyes rolling to the back of my head and stumble over a dune like you see in the movies.
Back on the highway, the road sinks into the desert and is bumpy from the weight of the oil rigs blasting by. They come barreling down the road, trailed by a dozen trucks. You can spot the burn off from the road every quarter mile. heavy heat swells surge from the flames, and I ride on this torched lined road.
I begin to make out the mountains along the state border. They come and go as I dip over the hills and swerve through the blasted rock. My lungs choke on the air. Fire.
Fire in the mountains along the state border.
I came upon a beautiful little harbor lined with shops, restaurants, and boats both at dock and moor. I approached a man on a boat. I was seeking transit across the bay where a wildlife refuge and dunes hailed the sights of the harbor. He agreed to take me across the bay.
It was 98 degrees by midday. The sun ablaze in a cloudless sky. I was out of water some 2.5 miles up the trail. On the way back, I took some breaks soaking in the cool baths of the creek. Quite enjoyable really, but deep down I knew time was running out.
Most of the summit is a blur, but I remember being
shaky in the legs and hands, a little bit dizzy and disoriented. I stopped and threw up twice. There was little to no shade.
I kept telling myself I was going to make it. I never allowed the possibility of doubt, disappointment, failure, or giving up. I took my breaks, pressed onward and upward. I kept my thoughts on that icy cold Gatorade waiting for me and the cool AC blasting from Bertha’s vents.
I passed my time watching trout swim in the stream. Before leaving, I dipped my hands in the falls' cool pools and said, "thanks."
Heading west, I came upon a quaint little cemetery on top a hill surrounded by bluffs. It was Memorial Day. I stopped to pay my respects. Most of the vets who rest here served in WWII, others WWI.
One by one, I walked passed the American flags. The tears swelled. Flags were everywhere.
Appreciation and gratitude flush over me, and I am happy to be in such beautiful country.
