Big Hatchet Mountains, NM - April 2024

A month ago, I stood under the snow-covered peaks of Little Hatchet, gazing at the distant crest of her big brother, the sky heavy with wind and rain and dust. Mud everywhere.

Little Hatchet Mountains, New Mexico

Next to me there was a man in a car, no – a truck, one of those which carries its own power. Self-sufficient. Shaggy beard, wandering speech. A dog tucked in beside him. Waiting. A day hiker, I thought. Homeless, I thought. An attorney. A philosopher. A man waiting for his turn at luck, for a new turn at life, I thought.

The mountains remember. The rain, the wind, the dust remember. Who am I to tell them otherwise?

Now, standing outside the store in Hachita, the only store in Hachita, heat has erased any sense of a digital display. Pumping gas is an act of flying blind and my flailing’s have caught the attention of the clerk. A girl approaches, young, thin, not more than 16 with a revolver strapped to her hip - bigger than my dainty piece of 9mm iron. I shift weight and push my pistol back and out of sight. It feels small and unnecessary in her presence. Embarrassing.

You’re the one riding the border, she says. You persevered.

I asked about the truth-seeker, in the car-truck, with the dog. Did he ever get that property down the road?

He did, was just here matter of fact.

I smiled a little - I remember.

Inside the store, two hikers sit waiting, steam rising from paper cups. A dusty truck later and they are off to Crazy Cook Monument, the southern origin of the Continental Divide, that wild and wonderful trail of indecision. I wonder if I’ll see them again.

The thru trail has always haunted me. Always desired yet never obtained. I have touched her southwestern end in many places. Big Hatchet. Little Hatchet. Silver City. Mangas Peak. Hopewell Lake. Abiquiu. Rio Grande National Forest and La Garita Wilderness. On the banks of Peru Creek, Colorado. Who is following who I’m not sure.

Big Hatchet Mountains, New Mexico

In the shadow of Big Hatchet Mountains, I set camp near an old cattle pen and dying windmill. Broken boards and rusty metal strewn about. The land, now overgrazed, is cloaked in yellow bitterweed – a wash of sun against toned ground. Sawcut mountains mark the horizon, their surface a blank canvas. A wet trough and reservoir nearby, the only sign of life.

West of Ram Gorge, I catch the CDT and head southeast toward Mexico, reins crossed over the saddle horn. A slight breeze penetrates my linen shirt, cooling sweat against skin. I am glad we made an early start of it.

And as always with this desert, what appeared monotonous, dull from a distance, becomes vibrant and bold up close. Dips and draws, fields of fiery Ocotillo, trail markers in rocky bell skirts, the desert comes alive with the music of dust and gravel, the sigh of a lone wind, the rustle of prairie grass. There is beauty here for those willing to look.

Two hikers amble by on the road below, short cutting the trail no doubt. Their focus downward, on whatever is held so preciously in hand, phone or GPS. Another truck of eager pilgrims rumbles by in the distance, dust flying, and returns empty.

I don’t think they ever saw me. I am lost in the impasto of the desert and I like that just fine.