The desert was one of my favorite parts of the PCT, and I have high hopes for the New Mexico here. Like its Pacific counterpart, the CDT goes through lower elevation areas of traditional desert with cacti, roaming bands of tumbleweed, and sand. But in New Mexico we spend much more time in the sprawling pine forests at higher elevation than I remember from southern California.
Our first night out of Santa Fe we camp in the pines, at the top of a climb and before a steep descent to the valley floor. It’s warm and beautiful and everything is perfect when I wake up. We were a little concerned about camping next to a dirt road here, but it looks like nobody’s driven by in weeks or months. So we chanced it, and it ended up being a peaceful night in our tents.
Murphy and Stomper tend to hike and chat together, while I’m usually off doing my own thing at my own pace. But we take all of our breaks and camp together, and although I enjoy going days without seeing any trace of humanity I’m glad to have their company.
The stretch between Santa Fe and Cuba, our next town, is only two days plus some change. The trail is easy to follow, alternating between desolate dirt roads and well maintained footpaths, and largely uneventful. Until Stomper and Murphy get ahead of me, with the former calling back to me, “Surprise!”
I’m confused why there’d be a surprise up ahead, and chalk it up to a misinterpretation of Stomper’s speech. His English is almost perfect, but as a Quebecois it’s not his mother tongue. Then I reach the top of the climb and find out what’s really happening.
“Hey, one of us!” Surprise, the piece of shit 55 year old doctor who acted like a spoiled child in Santa Fe, is sitting on a log. “I found a spot up here with cell service, and I missed you guys so much that I figured I’d wait here for you three.”
“Oh, hey. I gotta go, have to make some miles. Bye!” I call out as I get the hell out of there, locking eyes with Murphy on the way. She kind of shrugs, and I give an exasperated smile.
Surprise waited 20 hours for us in the woods! WHAT THE FUCK?! I text a few trail friends when I get cell service. I feel like something weird is going to happen and I’m going to get a good story out of this, I add (way too prescient, wish I was wrong about that).
Eventually I can feel my blood sugar start to crash, and with shaking hands I drop my pack and scavenge through my nylon food bag for something to eat. The other three catch up, and we chat like everything is normal. I just can’t take how weird it is that he’d wait in the woods for us, and not in town, so after some pleasantries I gather my belongings together and head on.
It’s high, cold, and beautiful on this section as we cruise along at around 10k feet. The yellow grass spreads out in a clearing fenced by pine trees, with the drop from the plateau not quite visible from the trail. The liters of water I’ve been chugging pass through me quickly, and I stop frequently to use the bathroom. This gives the others time to catch up, and Surprise is the first to reach me.
“Sounds like you guys had a lot of fun in Santa Fe without me!” he cries like a petulant child from behind me, letting me know he’s there.
“Uh, yeah. It was quite the adventure,” I respond, trying to stay polite without actually starting a conversation.
“You don’t mind if I hike with you guys, do you?!” he whines. Actually, I’d prefer if you just went back to wherever creepy old racist dudes go when they’re not preying on women half their age.
“Yeah, do whatever you want,” I reply, zooming off. I didn’t want to upset him when I’d probably have to deal with him all the way to Cuba, which we’ll probably reach in time for lunch tomorrow. It seemed like a bad idea to piss somebody off when they’re at your back and you can’t see them.
“What’d you stop for?” he asks when I strip off my pack by a stream running through the forest.
“Let’s wait for Murphy and Stomper,” I say, spying the other two not far behind us.
“It is pretty high, about 10k feet, but looking at the maps I don’t think we’ll find good places to camp for the next four or five miles. And it’s going to be dark soon,” I tell the group. “I think the trail drops straight down to Cuba from here. If we got up early we could easily hit that Mexican place for lunch.” The northbounders all raved about the green chili in New Mexico, and there’s a Mexican joint in Cuba that I’ve heard is exquisite. I’ve been dreaming about it for the past two trail days.
Murphy says it’s fine with her, and Stomper goes to inspect the area.
“I’m a little worried about the elevation and condensation from being so close to the stream,” I add. The cold out here is no joke, and waking up to frozen condensation in my tent is far from ideal.
“No, it’s pretty dry under the trees. I think we’ll be fine. I’m going to cowboy camp,” Stomper calls back, and it’s settled. This is our home for the night. Murphy and I set up our tents in the trees, and Stomper lays out his sleeping bag next to our tents. There’s not much room amid all the roots, but we make it work. Surprise lays out his sleeping bag to cowboy camp about ten yards away in a clearing.
Stomper, Murphy, and I get out of our tents and start the nightly ritual of eating dinner while chatting in camp. Once we’re done eating and it gets cold, we’ll disappear back into our sleeping bags and talk for a bit more. At the beginning of the hike we had about six hours of darkness each night, and now that’s doubled. Long nights.
Surprise comes and joins us. I think it’s beyond weird that he’d wait for 20 hours in the woods for us only to sulk that we had fun in Santa Fe without him, but then he starts asking Murphy for candy.
“Murphy, can I have some Mike and Ikes for my birthday?” Surprise whines nasally. My elementary school students back in Madrid could learn a thing or two about pitiful begging from him. It’s really quite cringe worthy.
“Uh, you can just have some,” Murphy says. She hides it pretty well, but I get the impression she’s a little weirded out by this whole performance.
“I had a whole speech planned out, but…I wanted to tell you guys my wife is leaving me,” Surprise announces. Good for her, I think to myself in the ensuing awkward silence. Murphy is good at interpersonal people things, so I go silent and let her handle this. There’s an almost 100% chance I’d say something that would make everything orders of magnitude worse, so I just keep eating the remains of my food bag. Mexican lunch tomorrow!
We make awkward small talk until Surprise goes back to his cowboy camp setup in the clearing. After he’s departed, we resume our discussion on such pressing topics as whether or not Cuba’s trail-famous Mexican restaurant will have lunch specials, the elevation profile of the next section, and if it’s better to mail ourselves food boxes to southern New Mexico from Cuba or Grants, the latter being the next town (we decide on Cuba because, although it doesn’t have a supermarket, it’s less spread out than Grants so less walking to the post office).
“CAN’T YOU GUYS CUT THE CHATTER FOR ONE NIGHT?!” Surprise screams from ten yards away in his self-imposed isolation.
We instantly go silent. Dude, why the hell would you wait for us in the woods, tell us you miss us, and then yell at us to shut up?!
Ten minutes later he comes back over. “I’m sorry I yelled at you guys. I’m just going through a rough time. Maybe it’d be best if you all went on ahead without me tomorrow morning and give me some time alone,” he says, to which we heartily agree.
This whole thing is so bizarre, I think to myself as I fall asleep.
The next morning isn’t nearly as cold as I thought it’d be. Stomper, Murphy, and I remark on the joyous wonders of this as we pack up. I look over and see Surprise packing up and coming towards us. There goes his promise to leave us alone for a bit.
Rather than deal with more of his insanity, I head off on my own before the others are done packing up. It’s a fairly steep descent through pine forest to the desert floor, but the trail is well graded and my knees don’t give me too much trouble. The footpath dumps me out at a national forest parking lot, and my maps tell me to walk the connecting dirt road to the single paved road of Cuba.
While taking a break, I hear the other three catching up. Stomper, Murphy, and I haven’t had a chance to discuss last night’s unhinged outburst. He seems intent on not leaving us alone for more than a few seconds at a time, constantly staying within arm’s reach of Murphy.
After finishing my breakfast break, I plug in an earbud and just walk on towards Cuba. My first port of call is the Mexican restaurant, which is everything I dreamed of. The four of us get a table together once we’ve all caught up, and the spicy green chili is heavenly.
A few minutes’ walk away is the main hiker motel, which I’ve read is run by a Korean lady who’s exceptionally friendly and hospitable to hikers (sometimes we’re not the most welcome bunch, as we look pretty homeless).
“Hi! We’re interested in getting rooms,” I say to Mrs. Yang in the motel office.
“Rooms?” She looks at me confused.
“Uh, yeah. This is a motel, right? Do you have rooms for rent?”
“Oh,” she says as she stares off into space.
I lock eyes with Murphy, who shrugs.
“Do you have any available?” I ask again. She seems to snap out of her daze.
“Rooms? Uh,” she zones out again. “Yes.”
It goes like this for a few more minutes, until we agree to rent a couple rooms with two beds each for around $30 a person. Mrs. Yang hands two keys each to me and Surprise, who hands one of his to Murphy.
“We’ll decide room assignments outside,” I quickly blurt.
“I’m not sharing a room with a married man,” Murphy says at the same time. Which makes total sense. “One of us (Connor) and I will share a room.”
We head to our respective room numbers, texting Stomper that we’re sorry he has to share one with the psycho doctor and that we’ll explain everything when we have some privacy among the three of us.
“Well, Connor, you did tell me a week or so ago that you were bored and hoping for something interesting to happen!” my friend Jake tells me when I call him in the motel parking lot, recounting last night’s drama.