I recently wrapped up an IT gig that left me with mixed feelings.
The workload was more than one person could realistically handle, especially with all the changes underway. Still, I genuinely liked the people I supported and believed in what they were doing.
I ended on a high note—setting up an office on Starlink, getting put up for the night by the crew, and then heading out for a solo backpack in a nearby, remote stretch of desert. Hiking here always makes me feel more connected to the landscape that we call home.
Planning was minimal; I know the area well enough to improvise. I revisited favorite spots, sauntered over to a few I’ve meant to see, and returned to a place that will always be special to Joan and me.
Both nights brought rain, with mostly sunny days and a welcome abundance of water for this desert country.
Spring in desert rain.
While the Pre-Columbian archaeology always draws me, I’ve come to appreciate the early-20th-century ranching history scattered through the region, too.
On the second day, I watched storm clouds stack over the distant mountains, grabbed my rain gear, and hiked on; by evening, sunshine had returned.
(Meanwhile, Joan dealt with a hail-driven roof leak from that very storm, and I’d soon meet the claims adjuster.)
I settled into a favorite campsite of ours, sipped cider and rum, and watched the sun fade to dark skies and bright stars. I felt connected—to the landscape, to the quiet beauty around me, and to my absent wife who will share scenes like this with me again.
The next morning, I lingered over coffee, unhurried.
Blue skies, red rock, and deep solitude reminded me why I keep coming back.
Eventually, I reached the truck, cooked a late-morning tailgate burrito, and enjoyed another cuppa joe in the PJ forest.
Driving the long dirt road out, grateful for the Tacoma’s ability to navigate the mud and standing water, I took in the stark rim-top views.
Feral burros cause issues in this area. Though a shorter, stocky/muscular, hardy, and stubborn creature does resonate with me for some reason…Mom did call me a “chooch“”on occasion, too.
Pronghorn practically escorted me to the pavement in the distance.
A quiet, remote trip filled with solitude—but never loneliness.