Kelso Valley Road (mile 616) to campsite at mile 634
“You know what would make this really good? Add some dark chocolate, like the not even sweet stuff. Maybe a hint of cinnamon.” Keith nods appreciatively.
We’re eating rehydrated Bear Creek chili that we’ve tried to doctor up by throwing in some spare beef jerky, a cheese stick, and a stray packet of crushed red pepper flakes that somehow found its way into Keith’s food bag after a pizza order who knows how many town stops ago.
With an excitement that breaks like waves across his face Keith asks “do you think we could do a backcountry chili cook-off and get people to participate?”
I consider. Keith is full of improbable, if not comical, ideas which he’s found of punting out in quiet moments.
“That’s probably not in-pasta-bowl.” I say with all seriousness. A smile, eyes breaking away from the skyline.
Keith and I have started a game of sorts in which the aim is to replace an arbitrary word with one that sounds similar, just to see if people notice and say anything. Turns out the answer is mostly ‘no’ if you say the replacement word casually enough and without laughing. For a while it was ‘grape’ instead of ‘great’ and now it’s ‘in-pasta-bowl’ in place of impossible. I have no idea why other than I’ve found myself finding miscellaneous means to entertain myself during hours spent walking.
A group of us are perched atop Skinner Ridge, eleven people in total – one of the largest packs we’ve seen on trail. Each tent site gingerly spaced along a ridge so Keith and I sit secluded and watch the light splay across the mountains that roll away from us like paper waves. From here we look out upon weeks of effort, distilled in a way that feels grandiose instead of meek.
It’s one of those special moments, handed to you by the trail at irregular intervals. It feels as though the desert is not keen on letting us go before she’s revealed her full self to us.