Insomnia had made me overfriendly with the wee hours of the morning. Listless and sleep deprived, I sat morosely in front of the television watching such b-grade shows as The World's Strongest Man and UFC: Ultimate Fighting. While they have fostered a genuine appreciation for man's ability to pull a dump truck using his teeth, they have done little to assuage the restlessness responsible for animating my body in the deep, dark night.

The more this pattern became evident, the greater those foggy thoughts urged me in one direction: south to Texas. Now, even at its best, Texas is a place best experienced when one is bereft of heavy thoughts, unless of course those musings are mired in analyzing the effectiveness of the Cowboys offensive line. For me, it was the only place I could think of to escape from the mindless hours, from the burden of numb reflection. My destination was to be Guadalupe Peak, (8700 + ft.) the highpoint of the Lone Star State and a good 800 miles away from Boulder. In the past, I'd refuted the trip on the grounds of no money, no time, my unreliable car, and anything else that countered the actual act. Well, I still had no money, the unreliable car, but I did have time--lots and lots of it, most of it being filled with short-term nothingness. No longer! I would have to create my own inertia and dislodge myself from the grip of the gloomy inactivity. It would be Texas and it would be now.

Sunday April 16, 2006
4:30 PM
It's Easter, though this only becomes apparent to me after checking the hours at the public library. They are closed and I'm disappointed. I have decided to do it, to drive down to Texas, damn the armadillos, full speed ahead. I basically have everything I need except for something good to listen to; my apocryphal trip to the library intended to find a good book on tape. No matter, I'll check out Barnes and Noble down the road. I have money from family members as a reward for being born, so an audio book would be a nice present to me, from them. I hop on my bike and pedal to the enormous bookseller only to find they don't carry books on tape anymore, only books on CD. In the past, this might have been ample enough to discourage me from going (there are plenty of times I've aborted runs due to lack of batteries for my MP3 player) but not this time. I'll take a few tapes I've already listened to dozens of times and if it comes to it, I'll resort to ignorant talk radio. Nothing is going to stop me!

6:00 PM
I overfill my cat's food bowl, print out vague instructions from the Internet, and pack the bare minimum amount of gear into my car. My 89' Accord has over 170,000 miles on it and has a bad habit of shaking violently when idling, thanks to either a bad sensor or a broken internal computer. Or a demonic hellbeast infiltrating its metal soul. Who knows? Maybe my bad luck with previous vehicles has caused me to project the fear of an inexplicably complicated breakdown in this car, but to my little Honda's credit, it's never actually stranded me anywhere. Both times the exhaust system was knocked off, it was my fault. I grab an atlas and my highpointing book, which is missing only one of the 200+ pages: the one with the map of Texas on it. I had torn it out four years earlier during a trip to Utah's King Peak, which was unfortunately located on the opposite side. Again, at other times this would have been a suitable deterrent. Not this time.

6:30 PM
Not only are gas prices at an all time high, Texas is expecting record high temperatures for the days I'm down there. More reasons not to go, yet I simply ignore them. As I pull away from the gas station and watch the familiar streets of Boulder fade in the rearview mirror, I begin to realize my commitment to this night journey. No one knows where I am going and in truth, I don't even have my route mapped out yet. No matter, I'll be on the road, where I belong, putting this sleepless routine to good use.

8:00 PM
The trip begins to feel official as I drive through my final major city for a very long time, Colorado Springs. Last time I was on these roads was on the way back from Mount Rainier with Sheila, a thought that is not lost on me. It feels like a lifetime ago even though it was merely the previous August. The waning sun closes the horizon and night falls over the ever-thinning vegetation in the dry landscape beyond my windows.

10:15 PM
I'm a few miles from Las Vegas, New Mexico on I-25. Las Vegas is the last place on the map in bold print until the alien friendly confines of Roswell. I've passed the exit to route 64, the way to Taos—another memory laden lane to be bypassed this time around. The Edgar Allan Poe tape is droning in the background and my mind is still nowhere in particular, operating the car and arguably more alert than normal. There are 20 miles to go to the intersection with Glorietta, where I will be leaving the safety of the fat blue line of the interstate and casting my luck down route 285. If ever there was a lonely desert highway, this is it. The desolation is broken every 60 miles or so by a town, places so remote you wonder how anyone could live there. The desert has many secrets to hide and I can't help but think the citizens of these secluded settlements are included in the mystery.

10:45 PM
Even though the speed limit is listed at 75, I go slower. For one, my car is shaking a bit, though still riding as smoothly as it can. More notably, there are violent splatters of animals that have been positively eviscerated by speeding vehicles. I see no other passenger cars, only 18 wheel style trucks. The copious splashes of blood look like paint ball residue; the corpses are no where to be seen---either blasted into the barren desert or inhaled by the grill of some menacing diesel demon. Most of the carnage victims are rabbits, which line the guardrail-less highway by the thousands. Occasionally, a deer or coyote pops up in the stream of my headlights. I wonder how their primal brains process the flying lights and the horrible power they embody.

Monday April 17, 2006
12:00 AM
It feels like I'm making good time, though my ears (and my intelligence) are being punished by the expectedly biased talk show radio. If you had to create a vision of the southwest based on these shows, you'd imagine the whole populous an undereducated, overly armed, religious faction deprived of logical reasoning. Intelligence is in short supply at the witching hour on the airwaves. It's all there is to listen to, so I endure the babbling as the miles go by. Me, a tree-hugging, bleeding heart, liberal—at least according to the abrasive woman on the radio.

1:15 AM
The wind is strong, nudging my car like a fractious child kicking a seat on an airplane. I'm still very awake and stop at an isolated travel center in the middle of nowhere. The clean pumps, bright lights, and evidence of human life are like a magical electric oasis. I buy an ice cream cone, a mountain dew, and of course gasoline. Inside the shop, a white rapper homeboy kid is using all his best lines on the chubby gal behind the counter and his charms seem to be working. Love, New Mexican style.

2:00 AM
My eyes are finally starting to get heavy, though for the first time in many moons I am engaged. A worthy radio show has been found in the form of Art Bell. I remember my Dad mentioning him a few years back, saying I should give him a listen. His show, Coast to Coast is geared towards your more metaphysical, supernatural, and X-Filey type stuff. For a radio host, his style is refreshingly without guile or skepticism; he listens patiently and intelligently to people who are definitely on the fringes of accepted societal thought. It's neat stuff as folks discuss paranormal experiences. Even more fitting are the hand painted signs that proclaim such tourist traps as “U.F.O. Crash Site”, “Area 51 Bunker”, and “Alien Ship Remains” on 285. I'm only 40 miles from Roswell, a key player in the heart of conspiracy theorist's locales. Given the eerie aspect of night and the dim moonlight blanketing the enigmatic desert, it seems like a U.F.O sighting is as inevitable as demolishing a 12-pack of bunnies.

2:45 AM
Materializing in the distance is the first rest area I've seen since getting on 285 some 250 miles ago. I'm ready to rest and the unexpected but welcome conversations of Bell's show have relaxed me. On a normal night I'd drift oft to sleep considering large-headed extra terrestrials, but tonight the mental stimulation has served nicely to negate all those melancholy feelings driving me to leave Colorado in the first place, leaving me par for the course. I make two observations as I pull over for whatever sleep my body will accept. One, I made it through the night without hitting any animals. Two, I have not seen another vehicle for over an hour and I am alone at the rest area. Given the circumstances, I feel like getting abducted by aliens might not be so bad and if you could feel the atmosphere of the setting, it seemed downright plausible. I twisted my body into position in my lowered driver's seat, threw my sleeping bag over my head, and prepared to sleep. My mouth has a sharp, metallic dryness so I muster up my last bit of energy to go outside and brush my teeth. The forceful wind is calming and the stark desert is beautiful—I've seen scenes like this in Moab, White Rim, and Canyonlands. I forbid my thoughts to go beyond that association, as there are too many memories that I'd rather leave behind tonight. I crawl back into my car, wiggle and toss until somehow I fall asleep.

6:30 AMPink pastel skies rim the softening night. I awake eager to make good time and experience child-like delight when my car rumbles to life. Strange as it may sound, I've had plenty of vehicles where starting was a major success and that syndrome of fear is still there. Heck, I'm now 600 miles from home and no one knows where I am, at least nobody who cares. My car is my only friend out here.

7:00 AM
So this is Roswell! In high school, Jason Labbe once shared with me photocopied “secret” government documents that were supposedly tippiest-toppiest secret that profiled the space ship that supposedly crapped the bed just outside of Roswell. He seemed thoroughly convinced this was a real cover up. I myself liked the idea as well. Well, here I was in the heart of “weather balloon” country. The town itself is tight and cluttered with the usual culprits: Walmart, McDonald's, KFC, etc. Marketing seems second nature to all the businesses using spacemen as their spokesmen. A sign at the Super 8 Motel encourages me to “crash at our motel!” Our well known alien pal appears promoting Burger King, tire companies, gas stations, and motorcycle shops. The only place I'd really like to see, the UFO museum does not open until 8. Darn! No matter, I drive on, Roswell fades and it's more of the same.

8:45 AM
I have finally reached Texas! I'm on the last stretch of road before the Guadalupe Mountains, a rolling backroad that feels like it is paved with tar scabs. It's already hot—my car has no air conditioning and completing the double whammy, my car is black as the ace of spades. And speaking of the “Ace of Spades”, the Motorhead song of the same title comes on the radio as if invoked by the metal mayhem gods. I have no idea who is playing 80's metal on AM radio, but this is Texas—logic is a far gone notion.

9:30 AMAmazingly, I'm here—at the foot of the peak! The wind is still fierce. An information center is surprisingly modern and comfortable, given the seemingly isolated location. The somewhat sullen guy behind the counter tells me winds here are gusting at 50 MPH and can reach 70 MPH on the summit. He encourages not hiking the peak but the sky is clear and blue—no excuses! I go as so far as to set up my tent in a spot beneath the mountain. The campground is lightly populated and cars from Idaho, Ontario, Kentucky, and Ohio can be found in the neighboring lots. After a turkey sandwich and Gatorade lunch, I strap on my Camel-Bak and get ready to hike.

10:30 AMThe trailhead reports that a hike of 4.4 miles each way (8.8 round trip) awaits me, along with 3,000 feet of elevation gain. I speculate I should summit around 1:30 PM if I keep a brisk pace. It's furnace-hot, but the wind is a welcome friend in my world. In Colorado, there are times when you swear the wind is coming at you with full-intent of destruction, chilling your bones with all the malice of a sworn adversary. It means to blow the life from your body. Today, however, the wind is an ally. Fickle perhaps, but it is not out of the question that, far removed from many of my sins and sorrows, this invisible gust is a phantom form of grace.

I wonder if I'll see any other people. I hope there aren't mountain lions here, or more appropriately I hope there are, just not with a hankering for blindingly white guys. I do notice a group from Massachusetts has signed the register, so I should see them along the way. It's Patriot's Day so we'll have something to talk about!

11:28 AM
My back was a little cranky at the onset, but for the past hour I have felt like I was flying. I feel like a Greek hero under the influence of a kindly god who has blessed my legs and lungs. Given the sporadic nature of this trip, I'm amazed that I'm as strong as I am. I pass a friendly group on the way, then another. The sky is deep blue and the sun is bright.

It is not that heavy thoughts on my mind have abandoned me; rather they have been reshaped to fit the ambiance. After clearing a dry ridge, I turn a corner to find an astonishingly lush corridor on the mountainside. Later I would read that this part of canyon is known as the Eden of Texas. The vegetation is not overwhelming but it is shady and reminds me of Camel's Hump in Vermont. I'm not at peace in the conventional sense but my subconscious is quietly rearranging the priority of my troubles and coming up with a good game plan.

11:54 AMClearing a set of snaking of switchbacks, I find myself at the summit. The unmistakable silver monument on the top verifies it! I double check my watch to make sure I didn't skip a time zone or something because I have covered the ground with unprecedented swiftness. The 4.4 miles and 3,000 feet have been cleared in under an hour and a half. I realize I had a surplus of energy—perhaps negative energy—but energy nonetheless, generated from the events of the past few weeks and it fueled me up the mountain. I read the journal at the top, snap a few self portraits, stumble over a cactus, and get ready to descend. All said, I'm on the top no more than 10 minutes. That's my style, I'm not one to linger, absurd as it may seem considering I just came over 750 miles to be here. Before I go, I look out into Mexico and think about the immigrants who risk life and limb to cross the desolation in search of a better life. It must be awful hot and disorienting; I bet I would not be able to hack it. Snow and cold, no problem—if I have to escape from Vermont to Quebec, I'm the man. The heat here would wilt me in minutes and I'd be in the boneyard before you knew it.

1:30 PM
After meeting and passing the somewhat stoic group from Massachusetts on the way down, I conclude my round trip at exactly 3 hours. I feel good, not light, but somewhat sated in my quest for some kind of peace. Since it's so early, I break down my tent and decide to hit the road. The urge to get home is equally as strong as my inclination to leave; there is no logic to this. I have the time and food to stay a day or two but something draws me back. It is now 93 degrees at this elevation and I'm driving into hotter conditions in the heart of the day. I decide to loop through El Paso back to I-25, as the animal massacre on 285 would be better avoided tonight. Passing the white salt flats of western Texas, the temperature on my watch registers 118 degrees. I feel like a salt lick myself.

2:45 PMIn El Paso, I stop for gas, ice cream, and a bag of ice to throw on my back. I pass through several border patrol “toll booths”. My junky car and smelly body probably lend an air of alien-ness (the human kind), but every time I remove my sunglasses and reveal my green eyes the guards seem convinced I'm not sneaking into the US. All the border disputes here have beefed up security, though truthfully all the people I see look Mexican, except for the cops. Highway workers are drilling in the blinding dust and I can't imagine a worse job. Traffic is slow and dangerous.

3:45 PM
Las Cruces is another rough city to drive through and it is here that I almost missed the merge onto I-25 (the start of the highway). As I cover ground, it comes to me that I'll have driven the whole length of this particular interstate, I-25—Las Cruces to Cheyenne, Wyoming. I'm hot and now I'm beginning to get tired, as I mistake a chunk of discarded yellow fiberglass insulation on the side of the road as a dead lion.

4:30 PM
There are some funny town names in New Mexico. Given my punchy state, the moniker “Elephant Butte” cracks me up. The precious and campy “Truth or Consequences” is also on this road, named after the forgotten game show of the 50's. A lucid thought comes: truth or consequences are exactly why I'm on the road, alone, many miles away from home.

5:50 PM
All is well and I'm making good time. I'm nearing some big cities and as a result, I get some other options to ignorant talk radio. Local sports talk seems centered around high school athletics, a trademark of the entertainment-starved Southwest states. It's still very hot in my car, around 108 on my watch. All my windows are down and the vents are blowing on full.

6:30 PMAt a rest area, I gladly prepare to forfeit my quarters for some snacks that aren't melty and a cool beverage. But cruel fate has disabled the soda machine, meaning the only drink I can buy is ice water. I feel like a tool, as I have vowed never to BUY water, but in this case it's a necessary evil (as are the accompanying Runts, Funyons, and Eclipse Gum). This is the official 24 hour mark and I snap a picture of myself in my car. I expect to look worn out and beastly, but the image on the camera looks just like normal me, only greasier.

8:00 PM
Albuquerque! The sunset relieves me of hours of wretched heat and driving becomes pleasant again. I'm definitely a little loopy now. I try to remember when I've been here before, recounting a trip with Paul and Jody years before when we passed through en route to the Grand Canyon. That seems right but….oh yeah! I was here for 6 days in 2004 for the Balloon festival with Stephen and Suzanne from Hooked on the Outdoors. I realize this when I spot the infamous radio tower that tore the Smokey the Bear balloon to ribbons.

9:45 PM
I pass the intersection in Glorietta where I diverged onto 285 last night. It feels good to be somewhere familiar. The night is passing in blurry tunnel vision, my brain is positively empty. I drive for the sake of movement.

11:30 PM
Now entering colorful Colorado! If I can maintain this pace and not fall asleep, I can be home by about 2 AM. The border town here is Tristan? Tritan? Triceps? Trident? I see the signs but instantly forget the name. I think once I get to Colorado Springs 90 miles away I'll get my 12th wind to bring me home!

Tuesday April 18, 2006
1:30 AM
Rats! In the liquidy town of Fountain just outside of Colorado Springs, a wild fire burns across the highway. I am forced to retreat to a rest area, which may have been for the best. I could have wrapped up the trip in under 36 hours, but instead I am resigned to nap. The rest area is a bit shady and I'm nervous as cars come and go. I fall into a fitful sleep.

5:15 AM
At first light, I wake to realize it's chilly in the car. I left the back triangle windows open and the temperatures dropped—enough to freeze my Nalgene bottle of water in the backseat. Eager to get out of the rest area, I pee in a Gatorade bottle instead of risking my life by entering the spooky and intimidating bathrooms. I toss the bottle in a garbage can and I'm on the road.

8:30 AM
Crap, Denver morning traffic. It's thick and tricky. I can feel the same feelings I escaped a day and a half ago seeping in, but my soul is better equipped to deal with them. The sports radio show is familiar, there are Colorado license plates everywhere, and I'm very proud of my car for performing without trouble.

9:30 AM
I arrive at my door in Boulder. I go inside, feed Xanadu a can of the Fanciest Feast and stumble into the shower. I smell septic and rancid, rife with the odors of my hike and too many hours melting in the car. The whole trip seems like a dream—Art Bell in Roswell, the summit where I stood all alone, the faces of the workers in El Paso, the vistas into Mexico—all seemed fused into one bizarre experience. All is as I left it. It is hard to say what I've gained from this trip, other than my newest highpoint and new set of memories. This was the first time I did a solo highpoint, as they tend to be social outings. For the first time in a while I'm calm and somewhat at peace with the road ahead.

Conclusion
11:30 PMAfter a day of odd naps and lazy reorientation, I unpack the car, eat some of the junky food at my house and watch Ultimate Fighting Champion. While arguing the benefits of full-guard to myself, the TV flashes and my cable is shut off, as it should have been a month ago. I turn off the TV and it's all very quiet, not unlike the open desert. Xanadu is napping serenely by my head, looking every bit the smiling feline Buddha, minus the portly belly. Home, I think---is it out on the open road or here? Where do I flourish and where do I fail? There is something right with being slightly unacquainted with the normalcy of my bedroom. I pick up my warm, sleepy kitty and plop her on my bed. I can see a single flickering star through the ground-floor window in my room. My head is spinning with desert conspiracies and supernatural suggestions. Slowly, I head back to sleep, pleased with the comfort of NOT being in a car seat, thinking of those I love and the journey I'll not be able to share with any soul but my own.

Posted by James Dziezynski @ 3:06 AM