A Way Through

I do this sometimes. Leave everything and go out into the wilderness for days or weeks at a time. I do this when I need to. There’s no real purpose, or place to be, except to slow life down for a while so that I can catch up to it.

The goal is to be out of range of any cell tower (and any paved roads), for at least three days. Three days is the magic number. It takes that long, when turning my life off, for myself to catch up with my life. And for life’s dirt to wash off.

I have what I need, detailed maps of the area, and a GPS device in case the maps or my ability to use a compass fail me. I drive a 2003 4Runner 4wd. It’s lifted and has all the goodies it takes to go off-road well. And plenty of gas stored away on the roof.

I’m on day five, feeling pretty good. I can hear myself now. Still, I’m not ready to go home. Not yet.

I decide to turn on my GPS and search for a few geocaches I’ve saved. The first one is only about fifteen miles from me, but the road is rugged ahead. I slip my 4Runner into 4wd low and get trucking. The bumps aren’t so bad in 35” tires. I used to do this in an all-wheel-drive Honda Element. It was not so fun, but for the most part it got me there. AAA had to come find me once. Now, with the lift and the winch, and the locking differential, all of this seems easy.

I find the geocache. It's a bag of expired Haribo Gummy Bears. I decide to keep them and place a can of beans in its place. Even trade. Pop a few in my mouth. I log the cache in my notebook and get back to driving.

I always log the coordinates and the cache in my notebook. I log everything in this leather book, really. Made it five years ago, and I’ve continued to add paper to it. So much so that it doesn’t close properly now, and it has extra holes in the leather to accommodate the extra paper bundles. I could remove the written-on pages and store them while I write on a new batch, but it feels too personal. Like I’d be punishing one page or favoring another. I’ve written everything, everything that's important, in this little black book.

I can see I’m about one mile from my next geocache and park to pursue it on foot.

As I approach the cache, I notice a dead javelina. I assume it died of dehydration. Looking at the sunken-in corpse I’m reminded of one of the reasons I’m out here. We died because of dehydration, her and I. We dried up like this poor bastard.

The cache is a copy of Travels with Charley. I’ve read it both on paper and as audio, so I decide to leave it, but not before sitting and reading some of it while sipping water, which I am thankful to have. I remember that I copied down some quotes from the book into my notebook a couple years back and look them up:

“I have said that Texas is a state of mind, but I think it is more than that. It is a mystique closely approximating a religion. And this is true to the extent that people either passionately love Texas or passionately hate it and, as in other religions, few people dare to inspect it for fear of losing their bearings in mystery or paradox. But I think there will be little quarrel with my feeling that Texas is one thing. For all its enormous range of space, climate, and physical appearance, and for all the internal squabbles, contentions, and strivings, Texas has a tight cohesiveness perhaps stronger than any other section of America. Rich, poor, Panhandle, Gulf, city, country, Texas is the obsession, the proper study, and the passionate possession of all Texans.”

I love Texas, I think to myself. That’s why I’m here.

“I am happy to report that in the war between reality and romance, reality is not the stronger.”

I wish I could remember my state of mind then, when I copied that from the book. Steinbeck said this even when he was older and probably more cynical. Reality feels huge. It feels, real. Romance feels like an idea, or an ideal. There’s no form to it. It’s like the silt on the bottom of a pond.

I look up my next geocache. This one is far and it's hot out. I double check my gas and water store. Plenty there. Hard to believe that a few months ago we were in record breaking low temps. Temps I haven’t seen since I was a kid in Nebraska.

Sarah and I spent almost two years building our house out of a used shipping container. In an instant it came crashing down during the freeze when half of a live oak tree fell on it. I sunk everything I had into it. What a waste. I’ve been living there on my property in a donated camping trailer since, looking at it everyday. Sarah left before winter, but it feels like it all happened at once. Some kind of dream. Some kind of reality.

I re-read the day she left in my notebook. I wrote that I didn’t know why she left, and that was true. It was also not true.

As I begin my drive towards the next geocache I feel a chill of winter on my neck thinking about her. I wish I could’ve handled it all better. I wish I had known what her leaving had revealed about myself, before she left. Or before she ever thought about leaving. I’ve known regret before, and this is it, but damn, I feel stuck. No matter how far I drive, I’m in the same place. Like I’m frozen.

I cry.

Then the GPS tells me I’m five miles from the next geocache. The tears lessen and stop. I stop my car where I need to get out and start hiking towards the cache. I take water and my notebook. Probably should take sunblock too, but I’m out. This will be a long hike.

I begin.

An hour in and I’m down about a third of my water. Seems about right. Another hour and I’ll be there. Then I come to a canyon. It’s about a 30’ drop, and as far across.

I decide to turn back. Can’t risk climbing down.

I make it back to my 4Runner with water to spare, disappointed that I didn’t get the cache, and begin writing.

Why can’t I let you go? I write, and then I sit with it. I can’t think of anything else to say.

I sip more water.

Then it comes:

I failed you. I knew I was failing you. I think you failed me too. I think we didn’t care enough to fix it. We rode the wave of our fascination with each other, and it worked for a while. When the fascination faded, we faded. That’s really it. And I miss you.

We left a lot unsaid, and I have to learn to be okay with it. I failed.

More water, and I continue writing. I write for forty-five minutes. I get it all out on the pages. How I failed, how she failed. How I miss the sunlight that followed her everywhere. And how it always seemed like she moved in slow motion. The curves, too, I miss those. I say all the things I should have said. That I wanted my life to be with her alone and I’d work and fight for us everyday. I apologize for avoiding those things and avoiding the conflict that could have brought us nearer.

After a long break I decide I’ve written enough.

Then it occurs to me I need to go back for the cache. I pack more water, much more this time, and rope. I take my full backpack with my sleeping bag, firestarter, and a saw. Ready, this time.

At the canyon I spend some time studying it trying to find a suitable place to descend. I’m not good at climbing with ropes, but I do want to avoid breaking my neck. I settle on a large mesquite tree, tie off, wrap the rope under my leg and begin to descend.

Down at the bottom I can see it's a seasonal riverbed and I walk across the dry, cracked bed to the otherside. I only have one rope, so it stays put. I need to find a place to climb up without one on this side of the canyon.

Feeling tired.

I walk along the bottom for a ways. Then I find a ledge that rises up to the top. It’s thin, but looks like solid rock. The ascent is super easy but it’s another mile or so until I reach the cache. There’s just enough sunlight left to get there, and I’ll have to stay the night, which is what I counted on.

I reach the cache as the sun begins to set. It's a large plastic storage box. I look inside and there’s a briefcase. It’s locked (weird) and I break it open. Another briefcase. What the hell? Break that one open too. And then there’s a small box, which I open.

Inside, money. A lot of money. Twenty stacks of one thousand each. Twenty grand.

Twenty, Grand.

A little note inside:

“You did it. Put it to use. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Long Live Caesar.” No signature.

I’m stunned. This doesn’t happen. I look around in fear for my life. Or in fear I’m being ambushed by a hidden camera show, which would be much worse.

But nothing happens. As I try to get my mind wrapped around what I’ve found, I gather some dead branches, saw them and make a fire. It’s quickly getting dark. Laying there against the fire I think about how I wasn’t planning to come back to this cache. Incredible. I wonder if I’ll pay the taxes on it.

I also think about what I’ll put in its place. When taking a geocache we are tasked with leaving something of equal or greater value in its place. Nothing I have is worth twenty grand. Except maybe my 4Runner. Perhaps my house if there wasn’t a tree crushing it. Maybe I just leave all the water I have left.

I fall asleep.

In the morning I wake up with the same thought. What do I leave? Not water. Whole backpack with everything for a night’s stay? And then it hits me.

I need to leave this black book. It's time. And it’s the only thing that makes sense. It's gotta hurt, when you let something you love go.

Carefully, after having stared at it a long time, I place the little notebook in the box, then the box inside the briefcase, the briefcase inside the briefcase, and that briefcase inside the storage container. I place it back where I found it. No marking the cache down this time. I say goodbye to the little book, to all the words, including those I wrote the day before.

I throw the money in my backpack along with everything else, and begin my descent to the canyon bottom wondering how I just left my long-time friend there. But my pack feels lighter.

In my car and on my way out, back into civilization, I feel my face relax for the first time in months. By the time I spot the first gas station and start pumping, all the air around me is different, like the winter has finally left me. S’pose I’m a romantic after all, John.

I think about the money.

Probably time for a new house, and time to deal with the broken one too.