2020 was a terrible year. It was a terrible year for everybody, yes. But it was especially terrible for someone who had to travel to get some relief from the relentless oppression of CFS and its post-exertional malaise (PEM). Then, as if the virus wasn't bad enough, Northern California went up in flame. We were forced indoors by particulate matters and got locked up for a month. The sun glowed orange for weeks. The air quality index map was colored brick red all over. The only exercise I could manage was to walk around the block when the AQI color changed to red from brick red. By the time it was over, I was in such a bad shape that I would keel over for several days after walking less than a mile.
Back in 2017, I made a cross-country trip with my then wife and wrote about how I was able to take 16,000 steps in New York City. We made yearly trips since then, and I continued make progress on the road. In 2018, we traveled up the Oregon coast to Portland and Columbia River Gorge. In 2019, we made a grand loop through Olympic National Park, Banff and Glacier National Park and I was able to hike 4 miles to Mirror Lake from Lake Louise in Banff National Park. Every time, I was able to walk further. But then, whenever I return home, my exercise tolerance would slide back to what it was before.
The relapses have been disappointing for sure. But I didn't despair. I had this vague belief that, when I achieve full recovery on the road, I'd recover at home as well. The idea was that, even though the traveling chipped away my hypersensitivity to exertion, the remaining hypersensitivity, suppressed while traveling, gets reactivated when I get back home and triggers PEM at the same old activity level. So I figured that I'd be recovered at home as well when I'm fully recovered on the road and my hypersensitivity is all gone.
The triple sentence of CFS, coronavirus and wildfire in 2020 gave me plenty of time to surf the Internet. Around that time, I heard this rumor about people traveling despite of the pandemic. Soon after, there was a talk about the upcoming movie "Nomadland". I ended up spending countless hours watching YouTube clips in my jail cell and that lead me to the whole new world of people traveling and living full time in their vehicles. In the process I stumbled on Bob Wells saying how he lived a soul-crushing life at home and how he was now thriving on the road in his van. That sounded much like me struggling at home and "thriving" on the road. My mind was made up then: I would be on the road again as soon as I get vaccinated.
In 2021, I made that trip and finally achieved the full recovery on the road. I was able to hike 13 miles up and down 3400 feet of elevation gain. And this is the story about how I did it and how I am doing now I am back home.
This of course is an experience of one person. An anecdote, in other words. And it is a rather unique one at that: not too many CFS patients are able to travel, or exert, to the extent I have. Novelty seeking is also counter to the common CFS management strategy that calls for maintaining a routine to avoid accidentally triggering PEM. So, my experience may not be a generally applicable or even useful at all. If not useful, however, I hope it is at least interesting enough to serve as a diversion for other patients from their daily struggle with CFS, however briefly.
Preparing for the Life on the Road
People live and travel in vehicle in all kinds of manners. Their rigs range from motorcycle to gigantic trailer. After watching a number of videos, I came to admire people who live out of tiny Prius in particular. They hook up an inverter to the battery of their cars to power an Instant Pot to cook, and they run air conditioner to stay cool overnight. The engine automatically kicks in to supply electricity when the battery goes low. No solar, no house battery, no generator, no propane required. How neat is that? I have an electric car, I should be able to do that, I thought. And I'll have unlimited supply of electricity as long as I pitch a tent near a charging station, within 50 miles or so, and then commute to national parks and hiking trails. 9x7 tent that I had was also perfect for the job. I could set up a kitchen with my folding table at one end and the bedroom with a cot at the other end. In between would be my living/dining space. I would then power the whole tent with my car. So started the project in earnest as 2021 rolled in.
It seemed easy. Just get some cables and connect the inverter to the car's battery. In reality, finding a place for the inverter, drilling holes and routing cables though non-existing space under the hood was no easy task: it required taking down and putting back the whole front section of my car a half dozen times and crawling in and out of the 5-inch clearance under my car. What looked like a 30-minute project turned into an ordeal of 2 weeks.
I used to be poor when I was a teen. I worked summer jobs, paid $400 for '68 AMC Rambler and drove it till it died. One day, its radiator would leak. The next, it needed a new set of brakes. I was working on cars constantly. Then, when I graduated from the college, I sold my car, bought a ticket to West Coast and never looked back. I haven't worked on a car since then and consequently have forgotten how much work that was. And now, I was disassembling then reassembling a whole section of my car. The project was just about the most stressful thing I've done since I got ME/CFS 13 years before. But it was fun at the same time, and it brought me a great sense of accomplishment at the end. Maybe that was why I did not suffer a PEM from the ordeal. I instead felt almost completely recovered from ME/CFS when the work was over.
The "hobodom project", as I called it, stretched past April with gazillions of packages from Amazon. It was one thing after another: I kept going through the scenarios and coming up with more things I needed just when I thought I was done. In particular, I was going over Escalante in my mind over and over again. I was not in shape and I was going to a deserted place without cell signal all by myself. It dawned on me that I could be marooned in the middle of nowhere with no help in sight. I could become another Aaron Ralston. At the last minute, I decided to invest in satellite messaging service. Compass, power bank and heat shield -- so that I can spend a night if I get stranded with no help -- followed. Then things were mostly tied down as May rolled in and it was time for a test drive.
You could read or watch TV. Or you could dig out old pictures and nostalgically look back at time when you were healthy. House-bound day in and day out, options are limited for ME/CFS patients to relive the life as it was before they became imprisoned. Nowadays however, you could turn to YouTube and find just about anything or be anywhere. It is the next best thing to the reality -- at least till virtual reality becomes reality. As I was living a vicarious life in the YouTube-land on my large screen TV, I bookmarked all interesting places that I came across, telling myself that it'll me hiking there someday. Burney Falls in northern California was one of them. Castle Crags State Park was another.
I wasn't intending to go to Castle Crags. When the time came to take the rig out for a test, the plan was to set up the camp near McCloud Falls. From there, I could hike both McCloud Falls and Burney Falls. On the way up, however, I drove past a sign that pointed to Castle Crags State Park off the freeway. Then I remembered Castle Crags was on my list too. I just didn't realize it was located in the same Shasta-Trinity area. I veered off and boondocked near Castle Lake instead.
The fully exposed site high on the mountain had a beautiful view of the snow-capped Shasta Mountain. But the exposure meant that the days were hot and the nights were cold. In the afternoon, I sat in front of the fan with a spray bottle in my hand. At night, I lined the mummy bag with an electric blanket and then stuffed myself in it. Hot, cold and dusty, it was a hard life. It was a taste of things to come.
The first day in Shasta-Trinity was spent in Castle Crags State Park. I only planned to drive up to Vista Point for the view and then drive back down to do some easy hiking along Sacramento River. Once I saw those craggy peaks however, I had to get closer. I figured I'd walk to Pacific Crest Trail junction and then come back. I missed the junction somehow and ended up further down at Root Creek Trail junction.
I have no idea what happened at that point. Maybe it was the feeling of being recovered that the inverter project brought on. Or maybe it was just my usual overreaching self. I suddenly felt that maybe, just maybe, I could make it all the way to the top. My best up to that point was 5 miles on Angel Island in September 2019. That one only climbed 600 feet, and I struggled with PEM for several months after that. This one went up 2000 feet.
I followed the Crags Trail all the way and almost reached Castle Dome at 4 PM. With only a few hundred yards left, however, I had to give up. I was totally exhausted from negotiating the rocky terrain and I ran out of time. It gets dark early in the mountains and, at the pace was I in, it would be at least another 3 hours for me to get to the top and then make it back down to Vista Point. I decided called it mission accomplished and live to fight another day.
I lived alright, but the feeling of recovered-ness was gone and I was back to my old CFS self. One mile of walking around the Burney fall two days after was a struggle even with several rest stops. Same thing on the flat 2-mile trail along McCloud River, another two days after that. Two weeks later at South Yuba River for the second trial, I had to give up in the middle of Hoyt's Crossing Trail which was only a mile long. The after-effect of hiking Castle Crags would linger on for 2 months.
On the Road Again
Would I have recovered from my CFS if I weren't constantly overreaching? I have no idea if that would've been the case for me, but the data seem to suggest that the rest in early days of CFS could aid the recovery. PEM not only knocks you out for days, but it also leaves you weaker and more susceptible to more PEM for weeks after that. By the time you are out of it, whatever little conditioning you had is all gone and you have to start all over again. So we quickly learn pace in order to avoid PEM. I was a slow learner: I kept triggering PEM, get knocked out, wait out the storm, and then repeat it all over again when I'm back on my feet. I was a Sisyphus with a motto: "hunker down, live to fight another day". It took a while, but I eventually learn to pace. But now overreaching was creeping back again as I grew more confident.
The PEM was a setback. But the show had to go on, albeit at a slower pace, and more tuning and buying followed. Then I was finally ready to hit the road in July, three months after getting fully vaccinated. In the evening, I got things loaded on my car. The next morning, I fed and cleaned the cat, left it with my ex-wife, and then I was on my way. It was as if I was going to work for the day. It was a rather uneventful beginning for a long, indefinite trip.
I initially set out with three milestones that I wanted to achieve. They were: Angel's Landing in Zion NP; Coyote Gulch in Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument; and Ouray Perimeter Loop in Colorado. There wasn't any method. I just picked among the YouTube clips that I bookmarked what were the most interesting, and challenging enough to qualify me as recovered. I obviously was overreaching -- I got hobbled after hiking Castle Crags and these were at least as difficult. But I could always turn back if I feel I'm not up to it. I'll cross the bridges when I get there.
These milestones then dictated my initial routes through Utah and Colorado. Then I would meander through the fly-over states on my way to NYC. The return route was TBD.
The Eastern Sierra runs from Lake Tahoe to Death Valley. The famed Route 395 runs between the snow-capped peaks to the west and the Great Basin to the east. Driving south from Reno, the Carson Range will separate you from Lake Tahoe all the way to Gardnerville. Then the route will take you through Bridgeport, a picturesque town good for stopping for lunch, and vast Mono Lake on its way to Mammoth Lakes. From there, it goes through more picturesque towns to Lone Pine, the gateway to Alabama Hills in the shadow of Mt. Whitney. Death Valley is only an hour away. It's one of the most scenic routes that affords the views of jagged mountains and deserts, often at the same time.
It also harbored many places that I had bookmarked, so I budgeted a week to explore it on my way to Utah. On the day I arrived, a 6.0 earthquake hit Gardnerville and left all ketchup and wine bottles in town shattered on the floor. I somehow managed to miss it by a few minutes. I was then at Mammoth Lakes after brief stops in Bridgeport and Mono Lake. I set up my camp in the national forest above Mammoth Lakes and commuted to June Lake area for hiking.
Rush Creek Trail, one of many trails in the June Lake area, starts from Silver Lake, crosses Pacific Crest Trail, and then goes past Thousand Island Lake for 10 miles. I planned on hiking the trail to Agnew Lake for the total of 4.2 miles, which should be within my ability while I'm on the road. After about a mile, however, I started to black out. Blacking out when exerting in bright sunlight has been one of my symptoms and I was still struggling with PEM from hiking Castle Crags. I had to sit under a tree for quite a while to gather my wit before turning back. Then I drove to June Lake and rested on the beach for a while. I obviously wasn't in hiking shape; I packed up the next day and left for Alabama Hills.
At Alabama Hills, people just can't resist filming themselves in their campers among the boulders of Alabama Hills. I've watched dozens of them. And I finally got my chance to do the same. I got there after stopping at Bishop for lunch and then wading in the clear water of Convict Lake. The sun was setting by the time I got there. I drove up the hill near the end of Movie Road and had my car perched high up on the hill looking straight at the Whitney Portal across the vast valley of boulders. The sun was now behind the jagged peaks and the sky was turning pink and then crimson red. I spontaneously burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of the view that I have never seen in my life. It was as if I was in another planet. Later in the evening I got out of the car to pee and got stunned again. I've never seen so many stars in my life. I stood there looking at the Milky Way till my neck hurt. I was so thoroughly enraptured that I couldn't fall back asleep when I got back in. No idea if that stunned me out of PEM or if it was time that I recovered anyway. But I was back in hiking shape by the time I got to Utah a few days later.
Milestones Fell in Utah
This was the Summer of Great Heat. Death Valley was regularly hitting 130F; the temperature gauge of my car in the parking lot in Las Vegas, where I stopped for refueling, registered 120F outside. The record heat was a novelty, like a souvenir: I took a picture of the thermometer that said it was 123F at 10AM in the shade under the gable of the general store at Stovepipe Wells. Then I made a beeline, only stopping for food and fuel, to Virgin River in Mesquite, my favorite cheap motel, for a well-deserved rest and real shower after a week in the wilderness. I lounged by the pool, worked on my Utah plan for a couple of days, and then continued on to Zion.
Zion was boiling too. The temperature was 100F in the valley and it would've been uncomfortable to camp there. So I set up my camp at Lava Point, 8000 feet above the sea level in Kolob Terrace, and then commuted 30 miles to Zion. At that altitude, the nights were cold. It was also the monsoon season in the Southwest. A ferocious overnight storm dropped hail and sleet on my tent, and I woke up in the middle of an ice field.
There are plenty of videos on the Internet with titles like "America's Most Dangerous Hike". Two people fell and died earlier in the spring on the trail to Angel's Landing that rides the ridge with 1500 feet drop on either side. I was not in shape: I could cramp up, lose the handle on the chain and fall. I was apprehensive about doing Angel's Landing. But I figured I could always turn back if I don't feel up to it. I'd go as far as Scout's Lookout where the danger starts and then decide.
I had to tackle Angel's Landing while I was still fresh from the rest in Mesquite. Next day, I got to the trailhead as early as I could to avoid the heat. Some people were already coming down. I marched on to Scout's Lookout through the cool morning air in the shadow of the canyon and got there in no time. I was still fresh and there was no doubt that I would press on to Angels Landing.
Turned out, Angels Landing wasn't as scary as it was hard. Sure, there were narrow sections with steep drop. But there usually were enough room; it wasn't a tight rope walking like some videos made it out to be. You have to scramble up the rocks, however, while hoisting yourself up by the chain. Fortunately, there was so much traffic on the trail that people had to pool up and wait periodically to let the oncoming traffic pass. That gave me enough opportunities to rest and catch my breath. After a dozen scrambling and pooling, I was at the top.
At 4.5 miles and 1600 feet elevation gain, Angels Landing turned out to be not really as difficult as Crags Castle. But it is still rated hard because the last half mile of the trail is steep. And it was the first trail rated hard that I completed; it was a landmark achievement in my 13-year career of CFS. I sure came a long way from the days when I could barely walk a few blocks without resting or became bed-ridden all winter long in 2009 after walking up Telegraph Hill which is only 250 feet high.
Yet, it didn't quite feel like a watershed moment. I already made it almost to the top of Castle Crags, even though I didn't quite make it and then suffered PEM for 2 months. When the constant need to lie down went away all of sudden in 2016, on the other hand, it felt surreal. The glimpse of the possibility of recovery after being sick for so long almost brought tears to my eyes. I understood then why paraplegic people cry when they stand up on their own, with an aid of robotic chair -- it gives them an illusion of freedom after being confined to the chair for so long. I've been making progress on the road in leaps and bounds since then, and the conquering of Angels Landing felt more like a continuation of that progress rather than a breakthrough.
The recovery did take a few days. I took a day off and then tried a short hike to Emerald Pools. I only made to the Lower Emerald Pool. I was tired, and the trail failed to excite me. It wasn't a PEM; it did not involve "profound exhaustion" that knocks you out, or the dazed feel that I call "feverless feverishness". But I did feel sluggish both physically and mentally. Maybe it was something in between post-exertional sickness and normal post-exercise fatigue. I returned to the camp after about a mile and rested the rest of the day. Next morning, I packed up and drove 30 miles on the dirt road through Kolob Terrace, and then descended on Cedar City where I checked in to a roach motel and took another day off before moving on to the next destination.
The road to Coyote Gulch goes through Utah's famed Scenic Byway 12. But first, you must take UT-14 out of Cedar City. It's not famous like UT-12, but it still is a mighty scenic road that follows Coal Creek through low canyons that resemble rolling hills at times. Then you head north on US-89 to get to UT-12 that cuts through the town of Escalante. UT-12 will continue all the way to Torrey and Capitol Reef National Park.
About 10 miles down on UT-12, you come to Bryce Canyon. I was here in 2017 during the cross-country trip and attempted to hike Navajo Loop Trail. I didn't quite make it then; my legs felt wobbly after climbing down the Wall Street section of the trail, so I wisely turned around. And now it was my chance to revenge that defeat four years ago. I made a stop and set up the tent in the national forest near the Bryce Canyon.
The 3-mile Navajo Loop wasn't much of a challenge after Angels Landing. So I attempted Peekaboo Loop, a 5-mile trail, instead. When I was at the bottom of the canyon, however, we were chased out by a lightning storm. The park rangers corralled us back up to the rim via Two Bridge trail. After a day of rest, I did the loop in the opposite direction and then come back up to the rim via Wall Street. In effect, I combined Peekaboo Loop and Navajo Loop into figure 8 and completed it in two separate hikes, good for 5 miles each.
I left Bryce Canyon for Escalante after 5 days. On the way, I stopped at Kodachrome State Park and Mossy Cave for a few pictures. Then I was going to explore Willis Creek Slot Canyon, but the road was washed away by raging water from the recent monsoon rain. I headed straight to Coyote Gulch deep in the desert from there.
If you relish solitude, Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, 2 million acres of desolation, is your heaven. On weekdays, you are not likely to come across another soul all day long. At least I haven't, for two days I was there. I waded potholes and rocks on Hole in the Rock Road for 26 miles into the desert of Escalante and parked the car under a large, lone cottonwood tree by the dried creek bed. A full moon was just rising above the cliff. After a simple supper, I followed the creek under the moonlight and meandered through the desert aimlessly. Then I lied down on the bank looking at the stars in the darkening sky. The heightened sense of the surroundings and feeling of oneness with the nature was indescribable.
It was another 16 miles to Moki Stairs where the trail to Coyote Gulch starts. That took me almost another 2 hours next morning in my low clearance vehicle. I left my car below the parking lot -- the car couldn't make it up the rocky incline -- climbed up the hill and then stepped onto the orange-colored desert. Fine dust particles rose up like smoke. The desert was not made of sand; it was fine clay powder that are all over southern Utah. This desert of clay powder and sandrock then went on all the way to the horizon. The creek was out there somewhere, hidden below the desert.
There was no trail to speak of. The video instruction said: shoot for the left side of the butte, then look for the black boulder. The butte was there alright, but the black boulder was nowhere to be found when I turned the corner. I walked in the general direction and eventually came upon three gigantic holes on the ground that I thought was the entrance to Hades. Coyote Creek was underneath them. It was a fitting entrance to what was to come. I found Jacob-Hamlin Arch underneath one of the holes, lowered my rope and climbed down the cliff. Then I meandered along the creek to Natural Bridge, had my lunch, dipped in the creek for a while and turned back. Fairly trouble-free trip so far.
The return trip was a whole nother story. I got back to where I left my rope and tried to pull myself up the cliff. To my chagrin, I couldn't. I was just too weak. I would've had to spend the night there if I couldn't make it out. I was well prepared: I had space blanket, extra food and clothes, water filter, compass and headlamp. I pondered for a while whether to spend the night in the gulch or press SOS button on my satellite messenger. Then I walked about to look for other possibilities and found a slant path that I could walk up in zig zag while holding myself up with the rope.
It must've taken an hour for me to climb out of that hole. I got to the top of the rope and thought I was out of the woods. But it was another 100 feet climb to get to the desert plateau. And little did I know it was yet another 2 miles of uphill back to the Moki Stairs parking lot. In the morning I didn't realize I was going downhill -- the horizon at my eye level gave to an illusion that the ground was flat. In reality, the desert plain went down to the gulch, and then rose up again on the other side. With nowhere to hide from the sun, I'd walk a couple hundred yards, cover up with the heat shield, and take 5-minute rest. Rinse, repeat. I soon ran out of water too. It took another 2 hours to get through the desert. The entire trip took 10.5 hours.
I checked into an inn in the town of Escalante and rested for a full day after that. In the following days, I did shorter hikes to Zebra slot canyon and Lower Calf Creek Falls. Then I was on my way to Capitol Reef National Park, sleeping in my car along the way.
From Escalante, UT-12 takes you through some of the most spectacular sceneries of the Southwest. At Head of the Rocks Overlook just outside the town of Escalante, undulating field of beige rock, with reddish brown patches thrown in here and there and green shrubbery sprinkled on the top, will spread in front of you for miles all the way to Boulder Mountain to the north. To the west are the remnants of Utah's Wasatch Range. Escalante National Monument, Glen Canyon NRA and Moab desert all sit in this vast valley between the Utah and the Colorado mountains. Standing at the Overlook, you can easily imagine Dominiguez-Escalante Expedition traveling to the town of Escalante skirting the beige hills following Escalante River. The undulating beige field continues along UT-12 while the road rises as you approach Boulder Mountain. At Hogsback, deep fissures and gaping holes appear at the crease of the undulation. They are carved out by the creek underneath, just like Coyote Gulch. Then the route goes through the town of Boulder, a verdant patch of cattle ranches, before taking you over the Boulder Mountain. The temperature drops precipitously as you go over, and you may encounter sleet or hail during the monsoon season. UT-12 finally ends at Torrey near Capitol Reef National Park.
Capitol Reef National Park is the best national park that you've never heard of. At least I haven't heard of it till I started planning my trip through Utah. Many trails go the red rock cliffs from the verdant valley around Fruita, or off UT-24. They will take you to various arches and bluffs with spectacular views. But the highlight of the park for me was Grand Wash, a giant slot canyon that runs from UT-24 to Cassidy Arch deep in the park. It reminded me of The Narrows in Zion at times, and Yosemite Valley when it opened up to tall cliff of dark rocks.
I made a quick stop at Capitol Reef and hiked 5 miles through Grand Wash. Then I continued on UT-24, sleeping in Utah desert along the way. Next day, I crossed Colorado River at Glen Canyon to get to Monticello. I set up my camp in Blue Mountains near Monticello and commuted to Monument Valley, Canyonlands and Arches National Park. The valley lowlands were still too warm, and I had to stay high to stay cool.
With Angel's Landing and Coyote Creek under my belt by now, I needed more challenge. So, I went for the Chesler Park Loop in Canyonlands, a 10-mile hike with 2000 feet of elevation gain. I first had to go to visitor's center to find out how to get to Chesler Park. The ranger was adamant that I don't go there. It was going to be too hot, and it was already 10AM, too late to avoid the heat, she said. She didn't know that I survived the desert of Escalante without water. Seeing that I wasn't moved, she then said that I couldn't get to the trailhead without a four-wheel drive. She didn't know that I made through 42 miles on Hole in the Rock Road in my 5-inch clearance vehicle either.
It took me 8.5 hours to complete the 10-mile trail. It was a hard hike: the 2000 feet elevation gain was packed into a few sections, making it more strenuous than it would be otherwise. The return trip in particular was mostly uphill and had several scrambling over the boulders that made Chesler park what it was. I couldn't make long rest stops either, because a thunderstorm was brewing and I had to get back to my car before the storm came over. I was there all by myself and nobody would find me till the next day if I get hit. It was 7PM when I returned to the empty visitor's center. I filled my water tank, drove back to my mountain camp and took a cold bath. Then I fixed my dinner, ate and went to bed. I slept 10 hours like a baby that night.
In the following days, I did Monument Valley, the rest of the Canyonlands and Arches National Park. On the final day, I hiked both Delicate Arch and Double O Arch, good for about 8 miles total. I was in shape by the time I left Utah.
Roaming Free in Colorado
It's not every day that you get to hear the sound of cows grazing. You only see them nibbling, usually from a distance. But when one is pressing its snout against your tent, it's the other way around: you don't see it, but you can hear it grazing. It's the sound of a grass bundle tearing and then getting sucked in, almost at the same time. It's the sound of 'zap' and 'whop' compressed together.
Cows were everywhere on Blue Mountain. They would come in the morning and graze around my tent while I poured water over my coffee. When the cows were not there, a buck the size of a mule, or a doe with fawns in tow, would keep watchful eyes on me. The life on Blue Mountain among cows and deer has been so pleasant, I could've stayed forever. But it was time to move on.
I only had a vague idea about Colorado. I've been to the four-corner states several times, but I have never made it to Colorado somehow. It loomed large in my imagination, however: Mork and Mindy; John Denver; Aspen, Vail, Telluride... But the only concrete plan I had was Ouray Parameter Loop, the last of my three initial milestones, which has become not much of a milestone by now. I needed a reliable Internet connection and time to plan out the rest of Colorado. After 8 days of camping, I needed a shower too. So I went to Grand Junction, the closest city from Utah, and stayed in a motel for a few days. I made daytrips to Colorado National Monument and Grand Mesa while I was there, and then I was off to Black Canyon of Gunnison.
Have I said that Capitol Reef was the best national park you've never heard of? Here we go again: the Black Canyon of Gunnison is the best national park you've never heard of. As soon as you enter the gate, 2000 feet black cliffs and jagged spires spread under your feet and make you spontaneously mumble "what the...". The spectacle then continues 10 miles into the park past the visitor's center.
The vast valleys and crumbling brown cliffs of Grand Canyon are not as intimate: it's so big and hazy that they look the same in all directions. The granite valley of Yosemite is more intimate and visceral. But it is set inside of familiar looking mountains with no plateau. The Black Canyon is different. The plain suddenly plunges to Gunnison River and exposes the white veins in the dark walls of gneiss rocks. With the river being only 2000 feet down below, you can also see kayaks floating down the green river. It's a smaller version of Grand Canyon with cliffs that resemble the walls of Yosemite. It's as if Grand Canyon and Yosemite got together and had a baby.
The dispersed campground in a BLM land was conveniently located just outside of the park. I set up my tent there with a plan to commute to Ouray, Telluride and Montrose. On the first day, I made a failed attempt go down to the river via Warner Route Trail. I then drove through the park for short hikes to various vista points. I was in and out of the park so often in following days, I was on the first name basis with the rangers by the time I left there. On my days off, I'd go into the town of Montrose and get my car plugged in. Then I'd go to McDonald's, pay $3 for a McMuffin and coffee, and proceed to use their 200 mbps Internet for the rest of the day.
The Gunnison Route Trail goes down to the river from the plateau in 2 miles. The steep descent is so treacherous, you will need to grab on to the chains in some sections just like you do in Angels Landing. It would've been even more grueling to come back up. But I grew confident enough by now to attempt it. Unfortunately, hiking the trail required a permit and none was available. The ranger instead pointed me to Warner Route which was more au naturel -- no chain to hold on to, no trail markers. The 4-mile trail with 3000-feet drop was more strenuous too. The steep and unmaintained trail was practically impassible in some sections, especially if you are not wearing a pair of sturdy boots. I only had a pair of walking shoes on and I kept sliding. Twice my right foot slipped, and twice I twisted my knee. Then it occurred to me that an injury would put an end to my trip. I quit at that point.
After a day of rest, it was finally time for Ouray Parameter Loop. I made the usual morning commotion of making coffee and eating serial breakfast and then going into the park for the morning duty. Then I was on the 50-mile daytrip after a quick charging stop in Montrose.
Ouray is a tourist town nestled in San Juan Mountains. To get there, you head south on US-550 from Montrose and follow Uncompahgre River. The orange-colored river will take you to the visitor's center where the Loop starts. It then runs right through the town that calls itself Switzerland of America. The surrounding mountains may resemble Alps, but the town itself is decidedly American: the main street that doubles as US-550 is lined with restaurants and shops while the side streets are filled with white clapboard houses. It reminded me more of Keystone or Cold Spring than Grindelwald or Bern.
The Parameter Loop was a pretty trail. It crossed waterfalls and creeks, and then traversed Uncompahgre River at midpoint. Towards the end of the trail, it crossed the bridge over Box Canyon with raging water a hundred feet below. For some reason though, I wasn't too excited about it and I struggled to finish the loop. Maybe it felt rather anticlimactic after places like Black Canyon, Coyote Gulch and Chesler Park. Or maybe I was just tired after a month of hard hiking. Sure, it goes up and down for the total elevation gain of 1700 feet over the distance of 6 miles. That's not exactly a walk in the park. But the trail felt endless, and I felt exhausted rather than elated as I usually do when I was back at my car. I still did it in 5 hours though, so the struggle may have been more psychological than physical. No matter, I hit all 3 milestones that I set out for, and I was ready to declare that I fully recovered from CFS at that point. Deep inside, however, I knew that relapsing when I get back home is always a possibility. For now, though, it was time to move on to Mesa Verde, my next destination.
People talk about how spectacular the Million Dollar Highway from Durango to Ouray through Silverton is. But Highway 145 along Dolores River from Telluride to Dolores, the other half of San Juan Skyway, that goes through forests, creeks and meadows of San Juan Mountains is as stunningly beautiful. This was the route that took to get to Mesa Verde, my next stop. On the way, I stopped at Telluride, plugged my car in at Clark's Market at the edge of the town, and hiked Bear Creek Trail for the total of 6 miles in 3 hours.
After Mesa Verde, the plan was to travel east to Great Sand Dunes NP via Durango, stopping at Pagosa Springs for dipping in hot springs by San Juan River. But I only had about 50 miles of range, not 150 miles that I hoped for, left in my car when I was done with Mesa Verde. I had to make a long stop at a slow charger in Durango to make it all the way to Great Sand Dunes. Arkansas River in Durango was a nice spot for lunch while the car was getting charged, but I ran out of patient after 2 hours. So I made a wholesale change to my plan, and drove back to Montrose: I decided to go to Aspen instead. Later I would drop back down to Great Sand Dunes from Colorado Springs via Poncha Springs where a Tesla charger was located. This change of plan also let me drive over Million Dollar Highway through Silverton and complete the San Juan Mountains loop.
If there is such a thing as scenic interstate freeway, it would be I-70 in Colorado. The route follows Colorado River from Grand Junction through spectacular Glenwood Canyon and Hanging Lake. The road is carved out of steep canyon wall at places, and you may wish for a glass roof to look up the canyon through while driving underneath it by the river. What makes this freeway spectacular also makes it treacherous: there are so many landslides during the rainy season, it is likely that you will have to make a detour. But you have to get off the freeway at Glenwood Springs before the treacherous section starts, and then take CO-82 to get to Aspen.
Another way to get to Aspen from Montrose is to take CO-133 via CO-92 from the town of Delta instead going all the way up to Grand Junction. It is a back-country route that splits Grand Mesa to the north and Gunnison Gorge to the south and then skirts the western edge of the Rockies to Glenwood Springs. By the time you get to Hotchkiss, a small town by Gunnison River, you will start to see snowcapped mountains of the Rockies. The glimpse will turn into a full monty view of white peaks spreading out in both directions as you descend McClure Pass. If you are adventurous, you could drive up Ragged Mountain Road, right before you get to McClure Pass, for a spectacular 180 degree view. Then you switch to CO-82 at Carbondale to get to Aspen. This is the more scenic route of the two, and it is the route that I took.
Aspen was a rather pretentious town. It was actually city, not a town, complete with an international airport. Jet-setters prefer to fly in, from all over the world, rather than drive thousands of miles like I did. Its downtown was lined with expensive stores and restaurants looking to lure in tourists that filled its streets. It was back to gaudy civilization after weeks in wilderness. It was also a change of pace for a hobo: on my days off, I lounged at Starbucks by the park in downtown and watched impeccably dressed people soaking up the sun or playing catch with their equally impeccably groomed dogs.
I wanted to set up my tent in a BLM land by Lincoln Creek about 10 miles outside of Aspen. But the sites that were easily reachable were all taken and the rest were several miles down the rough access road. After scraping the bottom of my car several times, I gave up and turned around. I drove back to the parking lot of The Inn of Aspen where the Tesla charging stations were located, plugged in my car, and climbed into the back of my car. Next morning, I went to Maroon Bell in an off-chance that I might score a campsite at Silver Bell campground. I got lucky and I stayed there for 3 days while hiking Maroon Bell area.
By the time I was done with Aspen and Vail, I had enough of resort towns. So I skipped Breckenridge and headed to Rocky Mountain National Park. But first, I had to trace Colorado River from near it's origin. I drove up to Grand Lake just before RMNP and then drove back to Kremmling following the river. You see, I really was all over Colorado.
Mt. Ida wasn't on my radar. But, having hit all milestones, I needed a true 10-mile, 3000-feet elevation hike that was my definition of full recovery. There must be a few of those in RMNP, I was sure. I researched while resting at a motel in Kremmling and Mt. Ida popped up. And it was conveniently located near Milner Pass on my way to Glacier Basin campground.
At 9.3 miles and 2400 feet in elevation gain, it still wasn't quite 10 miles and 3000 feet I was looking for. But I managed to get lost on the way down and made it into more than 10 miles. Having gone down toward the valley and then coming back up to the ridge probably added a few hundred feet to the elevation gain as well. The bitterly cold wind on the exposed ridge froze my hands and face and made it even harder hiking.
Two days later, I did another 9.4-mile hike to Sky Pond. By now I was in peak shape and I flew through the trail. I didn't time it, but I got back to my camp with plenty of light left. Another hike to Emerald Lake two days later and I left RMNP for Denver.
My car had been thoroughly abused by now. The rear window fell off, thanks to all the vibrations from driving on dirt roads, and the rear hatch refused to stay open after inhaling chockful of clay dust in Utah. I had to take it in for service in Superior. I played a tourist in Denver, Boulder and Colorado Spring area while the car was serviced. Then I set out for Great Sand Dunes via Buena Vista and Poncha Springs. Great Sand Dunes was nestled in the south end of Sangre de Cristo Mountains that start from Poncha Springs.
Buena Vista is located in Arkansas River Valley of Colorado. As you approach it from the west on US-285, a gigantic, white-peaked mountain will suddenly appear in front of you. It is not the snow on the top; it is kaolinite, soft chalky-white rock. Then, as you descend to Buena Vista, you will see a half dozen fourteeners of Sawatch range, with smart names like Harvard and Yale, soaring above the valley and the river. They are the Collegiate Peaks. The river flows south through Brown Canyon and then west along US-50 to Pueblo, and to Arkansas eventually. The tall white peaks and the river reflecting them on its water are quite a sight to behold, hence the name Buena Vista.
I didn't stay long in Great Sand Dunes. I wasn't able to secure a campsite there, so I stayed in a motel in Alamosa and made a daytrip to the park from there. On the way back from Great Sand Dunes, I followed Arkansas River to Salida and Canyon City, and then drove over hairy Shelf Road to Cripple Creek on the way back to Colorado Springs. Then I was off to Nebraska after a charging stop at Colorado Springs.
Playing Pioneer in Midwest
Maybe it's the light. Or it could be being outside with the nature. Life in a tent is inconvenient for sure, but I get up in the morning with full of wonderment. Waking up in a motel room is not the same somehow; it only makes me feel like a stranger waking up in a strange city. I'm just a tourist, not an explorer, in other words. Strangely enough, sleeping in my car had similar effect as sleeping in tent. I do wake up bright eyed, pop out of the rear hatch and march into Walmart for the morning duty with spring in my steps. Maybe it is the child in me -- we all remember how fun it used to be sleeping in a tent in the backyard, or in a cardboard box in the living room.
After Colorado, Walmart parking lots and I have become BFF. Camping wasn't much of an option because of the humidity and heat of the Midwest that made outdoor living unpleasant. I quickly learned that when I camped in Saline Wildlife Area in Missouri. I was going to rest there for a few days after driving from city to city for a week. I packed up and left the next day instead. I'd stick to my car and roach motels for nocturnal arrangement from that point on.
Eastern Colorado past Denver may as well be Kansas: it's flat and dry. Driving on I-70, you wouldn't know where Colorado ends and Kansas starts if it weren't for the sign at the border. It does get a bit greener though, and cornfields appear as you approach Kansas, or Nebraska through I-76 as I did. Sindey, a town of about 7,000 people in Nebraska 9 miles from the Colorado border was my next stop after Denver. Businesses line up along Lincoln Hwy, its main throughfare. The intersection of Lincoln Hwy and 10th Street forms the downtown. Parade takes place along this route and passes in front of Popkorn theatre on Illinois Street in the fall.
It's not on anybody's list of tourist destination. But it was conveniently located on my way to Scott's Bluff, the jump-off point for Sand Hills Scenic Byway. And it has a charging station and cheap motels. I stayed there for two days, took shower and rest that I needed after looping through Colorado Springs, Buena Vista and Great Sand Dunes on my final sweep through Colorado.
It's been a mystery to me how the vast sand dunes came to be in Nebraska, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. It's not exactly in the West; it is east of the Rockies. And it is far away from any large body of water. But it all made sense when I hiked up to Scotts Bluff and looked toward west. The bluffs and the sandy plateau run to Wyoming on its way to the Rockies. The sediments must have washed away from the Rockies and piled up in Nebraska forming The Sandhills.
The bluffs left behind then served as landmarks for the pioneers on their way to the West looking for better life. The Donner Party, which my CFS self reminded me of whenever I got marooned and unable to get back home, must have passed through here too. They first looked for the Chimney Rock as they approached from the east plains and then aimed right between Scott's Bluffs. Some of them died along the way and got buried in the cemetery near the base of Chimney Rock. They were the lucky ones; unlucky ones were buried in shallow graves in the plains and desert, only to be dug up by coyotes. Dying in search of better life has been the way of life since we humans appeared on earth. I'm no different in this journey of mine to escape CFS.
Scott's Bluff where Oregon Trail, Mormon Trail and Pony Express Trail converge was the highlight of my Nebraska. The rest didn't impress me much -- few states would, right after spending weeks in Utah and Colorado -- so I flew through Sandhills Scenic Byways all the way to Grand Island, and then rifled through Lincoln/Omaha to Kansas City. From there, I followed Missouri River and Missouri Rhineland, visiting the graves of Daiel Boon and his wife on the way. Then I was back on Louis and Clark Trail in St. Louis.
I thought about spending time in the Ozarks when I was in Missouri, but it was a little out of the way from my route through the Midwest. But I did come back to it on my way back to West in October when the humidity subsided. Then I played Daniel Boon in the Missouri woods for a week. I even managed to kayak Current River. The deceptively calm water lulled me into carelessness, and I lost my camera and pair of sandals when I flipped over in a narrow rapid. The key fob for my car was destroyed too and I had no way to get into my car. Tesla, in its wisdom, did away with physical keys and your car is as dead as a roadkill if your key fob dies in the middle of nowhere. I had to press SOS for my car on the satellite radio for the first time and wait 5 hours for the help to arrive. And then another 2 hours to have it towed to Willow Spring where I found cell signal to open the car with my cellphone app. It was the worst disaster in my entire trip that destroyed my carefully planned Ozark route. I slept in my car in Willow Spring, aborted the Arkansas plan, and moved on.
After Missouri came Kentucky from Hopkinsville to Lexington. The Most Scenic Drive in America, which has been my cross-country guidebook since 2017, called it the landscape "trod by Daniel Boon in the 1700s". From there, I moved on to Cincinnati to check out WKRP only to find out that it wasn't real. But the city made it up with Octoberfest, in September. The German footprint was indelible all over the Midwest.
NYC Again
The EV charging station was in the parking lot of a gas station up on a hill from the river. Behind it was a Home Depot. The Walmart lot had a view of a bank across a grassy field with a ditch in the middle. Images flash by in your head time to time, seemingly out of nowhere. They are pieces strewn on the cutting room floor that you pick up at random, and then wonder where it came from. Sometimes you remember where that was. Most of time you agonize to remember. Parkersburg, WV, a stop on my way to NYC, was one of them. It was cut off from my reel of 8000-mile journey, and I finally remembered where the snippets were from while trying to piece together my story.
After Cincinnati, my jaunt through the Midwest took me through the Ohio River Valley along Muskingum River and ended in Marietta, OH, where Muskingum runs into, and becomes one with, Ohio River. It is a historical, tourist town named after Marie Antoinette; the plaque at the confluence of the rivers commemorates the arrival of Marquis de LaFayette and declares the beginning of tourism in the US. Down and across the river was Parkersburg, a decidedly more blue-color town. Its shore was dominated with bridges, railroads and factories, as if to make sure that nobody would mistake it for a tourist town. I drove over the bridge between the two cities a few times and slept on the Walmart parking lot in Parkersburg.
I don't know exactly why the rust belt loomed on my mind. Could be movies like Mothman Prophesy or Deer Hunter. Or it could be Bruce Springsteen or Billy Joel songs. The Midwest abutting Appalachia has been a place that always fascinated me. And I was going to soak it up to my heart's content on this trip, all the way from Pittsburg to Allentown. My car, confused for some reason, obliged and took me through a series of gritty towns in Appalachia. Chambersburg, Shippensburg, Gettysburg, Harrisburg -- the burgs of Pennsylvania -- came after that. Then I finally arrived at my sister's house in New Jersey. After a day of rest, I took a train to NYC and then walked the city for the next two weeks.
Take M train to Astoria, grab a coffee at the Ukrainian bakery below the train track and then wander down 30th Street. Or get lost in the bustle of Harlem in a sweaty afternoon. There is something about aimlessly wandering in a new city. The boundary between your inside and outside blurs: you dissolve into your environment like you are in a dream. You become Alice in Wonderland. As far back as 2008, I knew that wandering had positive effect on my CFS when I moved to SF from the Santa Clara suburbia and walked its streets. Back then, I had to walk slow with frequent rests -- I must've looked like an 85-year-old dementia patient lost in the city. Even if it did not improve my exercise tolerance in the long run -- the improvement in a new city invariably faded after about a month -- walking did improve my mood and sleep.
I kept on wandering. I walked the streets of Seoul for 2 years, then I was back in SF. Then back in Seoul and back to SF. Then NYC. I walked all over NYC in 2017 and took 16,000 steps one day. I was here again in November 2019. I took commuter bus from New Jersey to Port Authority Terminal every other day and walked all over from Bronx to Jamaica. My Fitbit registered 21,000 steps at one point. NYC has become my therapy, that I've been thinking about getting a shack here so that I could come out any time I wanted to. Pandemic has emptied the city; maybe I could score a bargain. Outer boroughs were definitely cheaper than Northern California. So, my plan for NYC this time was to explore the housing market to get a feel for it.
The chicken coop in Astoria was no place for humans, so I walked on. The new studio on 30th Street right in the middle of action was nice. But it wasn't worth $1000/sf. I did walk quite a bit going from one open house to the next. But I wasn't keeping the record this time; I already did several 10-mile hikes and I wasn't going to set a new record in NYC. But I did walk fast at 104 steps per minute and I walked everyday. When I wasn't not attending open houses, I'd go to Flushing for cheap street food. People were shoulder to shoulder in Flushing and I had to watch my steps not to run over somebody. It's no wonder that Queens was the epicenter of Covid pandemic in New York. It even had a neighborhood named Corona
Then my 2 weeks in AirBnB slum in Astoria, complete with cockroaches and filthy shared bathroom, was over. I would've stayed longer if I could find a better place. But sublet in NYC wasn't as plentiful as it is during the summer when students go home and they put up their apartments for subletting. So I decided to leave the city for Catskills at that point, leaving behind my subway pass with 2 weeks still left in it.
I was in Catskill Mountains in 2006. This was when I was training for Judo tournaments and I was suffering from overtraining syndrome (OTS) time to time. And I had to come out to New Jersey for a family business while I was having an OTS episode. My ear suffered the worst popping and crackling ever; I was in agony by the time the plane landed on Newark Airport. I made to the rental car counter somehow, and then I got disoriented when I got in the rental car. Ordinarily, I'm very good at finding directions -- all I have to is look at the map once or twice and then I'd know how to navigate to the destination. This time, however, I just couldn't make the connection between the lines on the map and the asphalt ahead of me, and I kept getting lost. By the time I finally was at my sister's house after 2 hours of frustration, things were in blur. Still, I went to Catskills a few days later. I planned to see the fall color, and I wasn't going to let a little sickness stop me. I obviously didn't know how sick I was back then. I remember going up a hill and then giving up after a couple hundred yards. I pitched my tent on a grass patch by the trail and spent the night there. Sick and alone in the woods, it was the most miserable night ever. A better sense prevailed in the morning, and I packed up and returned. OTS eventually became CFS when I failed to recover from an episode in 2008.
It was early October when I left NYC. The fall color has peaked again, and I had to go to the mountains. I camped near North-South Lakes in Catskills for a week and hiked a few trails including Twin Mountains -Indian Head Loop, 8 miles of scrambling up and down boulders for the elevation gain of 2400 feet. The foliage wasn't as brilliant as it usually is in normal years -- there were more browns and yellow and less of that bright red and orange that make Catskills foliage spectacular. The drought in Spring, heat in the summer and then unusual amount of fall rain stressed trees, someone on the trail told me. The fall colors appear to be another victim of the climate change.
After Catskills, it was a series of Walmart parking lots in Greek-named college towns. Then I continued westward through Ohio, Indiana, Missouri, Oklahoma, and then New Mexico for my return trip to California.
Grand Finale in Grand Canyon
Who knew New Mexico in autumn was so beautiful? Normally, you would take I-40 all the way and then turn North on NM-285 to get to Santa Fe from Oklahoma City. But there was a big construction delay, and the traffic was backed up for miles as I approached NM-285. So I turned North on NM-3 instead. The route first took me through desert, and then to Villa Nueva, a small town nestled between rolling hills and valley. The hills and the valley around Pecos River, populated with aspen and other deciduous trees, were ablaze. The brilliant yellow foliage against dusty green of sage brushes and brown earth would've inspired anybody to paint. It's no wonder generations of artists flocked to New Mexico forming a thriving art scene in Santa Fe.
To my regret, I didn't get to spend much time in New Mexico; I still had quite a ways to go to get to Grand Canyon. I toured around Santa Fe, resolved to come back to Villa Nueva someday and camp by Pecos River, and then moved on to Gallup where I bedded down for the night on the Walmart parking lot. (I did stop on the way at Bonanza Ranch where Alex Baldwin shot his cinematographer the day before, but the access road was closed and I didn't get anywhere near the crime scene.)
I wasn't planning to go to Grand Canyon. I've been there many times before and I needed something new to get my juice flow. But I didn't want my trip to end with bland Midwest; I wanted to go out with a bang. 10 mile hike to Havasu Falls in Arizona was meant to be that bang, but Havasupai village was closed because of COVID. So I replaced it with nearby Grand Canyon and camped in Kaibab National Forest off the South Rim for 5 days.
The days were getting shorter and colder by now. It was getting dark by 5 PM. After a sponge bath and dinner, I'd be in my sleeping bag by 7PM. I'd surf the Net -- my camp was right by a cell tower and I had cell signal for a change. Still, it was getting harder to kill time through the cold and dark evenings. So, I'd go to sleep early. When I wake up, the temperature gauge would be at 20F. On the second morning, I found my windshield cracked in the cold temperature.
I hiked South Kaibab Trail on the second day. The 6 mile, 2000 feet round trip to Skeleton Point wasn't exactly a easy hike to be fair. But I was suffering from the lingering cold that's been following me since the Missouri Ozarks and struggled quite a bit. I had to stop every half a mile to rehydrate and rest on the way back. By the time I returned to the trailhead, I've decided that it was a good time to go home. I'd skip Bright Angels, pack up and drive back to California the next morning.
Then a terrible storm hit. The Southwest monsoon was supposed to be over months ago. But the storm that night was fiercer than any monsoon storm. My tent almost collapsed in the 40 mph wind. It didn't help that I threw a tarp over it to block out the cold air. Little did I know the storm was coming with such fierce winds -- the forecast only called for a few hours of rain over night, so I didn't think much of it. The collapsed rain fly, and the tarp over it, effectively served as a sail that almost launched the tent. The tent stood, thanks to 8 inch lag screws that I secured the tent with, but the tent walls got soaking wet. I slept well though, at least after I gave up and resigned to the fact that there is nothing I could do till the morning when the rain and wind stops. My sleeping bag got wet too, but the electric blanket kept me warm and dry enough. It would've been wet, cold and miserable night without it. I had to wait another day for things to dry up and pack up.
Bright Angels, one of the most popular trails in Grand Canyon, is in the Grand Canyon Village at the far end of the South Rim. As you drive to it in the morning, the sun will rise over the canyon and give depth to otherwise flat-looking canyon walls. You will have to slow down for Elks and deer grazing on the roadside, and people stopped for them. The trail goes down the canyon with soaring red rock cliffs on both sides of the trail.. The water house at the 3-mile mark provides an excellent view of the trail that winds up and down the canyon. At 4.5- mile mark is Indian Garden, a spring-fed oasis. It's a good place to take a nap by the creek on the way back before you start your climb up to the rim. The rest of the way takes you through the sunny plateau to the edge of the inner rim that overlooks the winding Colorado River gorge.
On the next day, the ground dried up nicely. My cold subsided too, enough to bring out my overreaching self once again. I didn't want my Grand Canyon to end in a defeat; Grand Canyon my last stop of the journey and the defeat will linger on like a bad cold. I got up at 6AM, had my usual coffee and serial breakfast and then drove to Bright Angels trailhead. I started out fine; the 7 AM air felt fresh, and I started down the trail almost running. But I felt drained and dehydrated once again by the time I got to Indian Garden, despite of stopping and resting every water house on the way. I almost turned around soon after. The rest of the way to Plateau Point was dry, exposed and rather uninspiring; I've walked trails like that countless times in Utah. I was glad that I didn't turn around when I got the Plateau point. The view from the inner canyon was nothing like from the rim. You could see kayaks floating down the murky green river splitting the volcanic colored cliffs rising 3000 feet on either side. It was very much like Black Canyon of Gunnison that I admired so much. I had my lunch there and then trekked back up to the outer rim, for the total of 13 miles and 3400 feet in 8.5 hours.
With the 13-mile long and 3400-feet high hike under my belt, could I still call myself an ME/CFS patient? I had to get back home and see to be really sure, but I was rather confident that I fully recovered. And with that, it was time to get back home to California. The final leg of the trip took me through Bullhead City in Arizona desert, and then Mojave Desert in Southern California. Then it was boring I-5 all the way back to Sacramento.
Epilogue
How strange it felt to return home. I was gone only for four months, and yet it felt as if I've been gone for a lifetime. Waking up to new things every morning must had slowed the time down. My sense of scale has shrunk too: 600 sf apartment felt like a palace filled with enormous amount of clutter.
Then the familiarity slowly returned as I settled into routine once again. And my condition slipped back to what it was before the trip.
When I returned, I was able to jog 4 blocks and maintain my walking speed at above 100 steps per minute. Over the period of a few weeks, however, my exercise tolerance gradually shrank. PEM eventually returned to my dismay, and I had to pace myself once again. I had to give up jogging, and limit my walking speed to 90 steps per minute. I was back in a familiar territory. I knew that was a possibility, but it was a bitter disappointment after the taste of complete freedom for several months. How is it even possible that I could hike 12 miles down and up Grand Canyon, only to struggle for several days after jogging 4 blocks when I'm back home?
Then I moved to Reno in December and my condition picked up. I was able to jog 4 blocks again and walk 2 miles nonstop at 96 steps per minute. I also hiked a 6-mile trail near Reno in 3 hours, almost nonstop. Ski resorts opened soon after and I was on the slope while commuting between Sacramento and Reno. Another month of that, and I was back to struggling. I am now back to pacing at 90 steps per minute.
So, it appears that the full recovery on the road did not translate to recovery at home. It was a temporary relief, not a cure that I hoped for. I may become dependent on it for the rest of my life. It probably is not the worst thing as far as addictions go. See the places that I haven't seen and get a relief from CFS too. What's not to like? As long as I can afford, that is. And it's not like I have to climb Mt. Denali or Egger Torre to feel alive and awake. I only need to be at new places to free myself from CFS shackle, so that I can live my life instead struggling to stay upright while life passes by.
I moved to Nevada in preparation. Besides being cheaper than California, it is a good homebase to travel southwest to the Four Corners or northwest to Idaho and Montana mountains. Pacific Coast of California and Oregon is equally reachable. When the days grow longer, I'll be back in the wilderness with my car and tent. Maybe one more season of playing Daniel Boon in the backwoods will finally move me to "fully recovered" column. If not, I'll continue to live on the road and thrive. That won't be the end of the world. I at least have an option to escape CFS, and I'm thankful for that.
