“Chef! Geez, this is good stuff . . .”
Yet again, I could get used to this stuff.
I’m doing my thing down I-10 today. Going home feels different this time, mostly because I came solo. With no one to share the ride back home with, I watch my phone for a good patch of service so I can call my wife and talk about our daughter. Otherwise, it’s the same mental recap going on and the same thought, “Can I find a faster way home if I take highway 60 instead of I-10?”
The muscles in my legs are stiff, and I love that feeling. The 3,000 feet of elevation gain in 4.2 miles to get to the top of Guadalupe Peak equals a classic tough hike. And I feel like maybe I’m not as far past my prime as my driver’s license says. Date of birth . . . some time in 1976. I’m not that old, but it seems like the pubic treats me like I am sometimes. When did I become “sir?”
Somewhere in New Mexico I’ve stopped for a meal, and I’m desperate for some Mexican. And there it is, how serendipitous: El Camino Real. The real road. Nice.
I sat down at a booth, ordered a number nine smothered in red sauce, and called my wife. I’m sure the next time I pass by exit 81 at Demming, I’ll remember that time I hiked up Guadalupe Peak and talked to a total stranger who thought we were old buddies.
Looking at the map, I see that continuing on Highway 70 to Safford is probably a better route. It’s called the Old West Highway. At Duncan, Arizona I stop because I saw this sign: “Gunpowder and dynamite will not be sold to questionable, disreputable, or unsavory characters.” I guess they won’t be selling any to JPFreek then.
Related – Hypothermia Run
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