It’s been a heck of a few months. Sparing the details, I fell into the black hole again, deep enough to scare myself into finally reaching out in every direction I could think of for help.
I always think I want to come back here... I do love the miles of fun, rocky trails that are so easily accessible in the middle of miles of concrete. Running these trails, bouncing around the rocks, feels playful. I like the climbs, which are short, steep and often like staircases taking me up and over the desert “mountains.” Of course, I love, love, love the sunshine and the warm December days when I can scamper, sweaty and shirtless, around the cactus.
One thing these last few months traveling have reinforced is my gratitude for perfectly timed personal connections. There is a saying that we have three kinds of friends: friends for a reason, friends for a season and friends for a lifetime. I am lucky enough to have a handful of people I consider kindred spirits that I know will be around for a lifetime.
We have no Thanksgiving leftovers this year. The holiday was happily spent gobbling turkey bagel sandwiches in the van between a long, hot run and a sneaky double feature at the local Prescott Valley cinema. What I am left sitting with these days, is some newly vacated space inside my head.
I have always loved the Eastern Sierras and was stoked to bring Paul to spend some time in the area. Driving down Hwy 6, onto the 395 and into Bishop felt like coming home for me.
When I was small I wanted to be a baker. I told my mother that I was never having children because I wanted to always be the one to lick the spoon clean after mixing brownie batter. As an adult, I love wandering through grocery stores, I’m addicted to Instagram food porn, I still find baking therapeutic and I love creating recipes or researching restaurant menus.
Here I am, six weeks into our Dirty Good odyssey still enamored with the lifestyle but of course, still me. As I write this brief account of my personal journey I am hoping not to reinforce and accept my identity as an anxious, depressive, disordered eater but to reveal patterns that have been both destructive and beneficial for me in the past.
I have to try hard not to giggle every time (like right now) Paul disappears into the van, practically into our Kitchen Cubbyhole itself, trying to dig out the small burner, pan, matches, or whatever is currently needed.
The weather in Ketchum was growing worse and worse, with a winter storm warning threatening the next few days. Although we advocate taking the “hard path” and want to be tough guys, the reality is that part of this journey is based on escaping winter because it’s just not comfortable for either of us – or for the Beauville.