Tehachapi

I feel like I did in Tehachapi. My friends dropped me off at a hotel with just a backpack. Of course, now, I have a carload of stuff, but it still rings the same. I am staying in a cheap, smoky hotel with an unknown departure date. It could be a week or another couple days. There is a slight chill in the air and my emotions that would be unbearable if I were not so active. I am scared and unsure of the future. I am solemn and remorseful of the past.

In Tehachapi forward travel along the Pacific Crest Trail was blocked, impassable without an ice axe, metal snow shoes, and winter climbing gear. I was alone. Years later, my dream modified itself to the Appalachians. It would be a smoother walk of about the same distance. I would start on the Massachusetts trailhead and move southbound to Georgia. Two buddies of mine traveled for two days and a night with me. Then, they were going to head back home. That day at those crossroads I stood looking out at the trail like I did in Tehachapi except that day was warm. My feet were sore. My back ached already. Sweat streamed into my eyes. Fear permeated my mind. I would be alone. I remembered Tehachapi. When they took the road into town, back to the cars, I went with them. I did not want to be stuck at a hotel in front of an impassable trail.

In Tehachapi there was a really good excuse. I look back feeling as if I made the right decision. Had it been possible with the tools of my possession, it would have been done. On the Appalachian Trail there was no good excuse. I could have done it. Many times I look back in wonder of what could have been. I dare say it is regret. You should never regret. All of your experiences have made you what you are today. If you regret any one of them, then you regret who you are. The feeling I have toward that day is very close to regret, though. In fact I can hardly think of a better word for it. My mind has rationalized it all away, like it does. I spent the following summer in Durango with my folks. My dad and I have a stronger relationship than we once did. That relationship is most probably because of my cowardice and retreat into their arms.

In Tehachapi I did not have a girlfriend back home. Neither did I in Massachusetts. She thinks I leave women to go travel all the time. I can only think of two. In one the relationship was nearing the end. In the other . . . well . . . the relationship was not necessarily ending, but it had not been going for long either. During that time I considered myself to still be traveling. In the winter nomads find a place to hunker down. In the spring they begin their foraging again. She sealed my hurt on that one by taking two of my good friends to bed within the first week of departure. The other one hurt, but like I said, the relationship was nearing its end. In my current situation the relationship I left was far from over. I just knew if I stayed, I would never leave. I am getting too old to keep restarting life. I might have one more try in me if I need it. By then I should be established . . . somehow. With a master’s degree. A few years of teaching under my belt. Works published. I don’t know. Who does? The point is to keep my eye on the prize. Unfortunately, right now, that can be very difficult with all that is left behind me.

In Tehachapi there was nobody in specific that I missed. In that way it was easier to turn around. Instead of running to my parents, I ran to my sister. She was closest and about due for a visit. I think my brother had not quite yet moved to Los Angeles. Driving here, to where I am now, to this hotel in a mountain town I almost turned around at least once a day. Once before I was even out of Houston. No, a few times before I left Houston. A couple of them were before I even got out of the neighborhood. Once was leaving Arlington at the beginning of my second day. I stayed with a buddy of mine. He makes a good in between place. After the Tehachapi incident I stayed with him before I went back to Houston. It was only fitting that I return to that place.

So, here I am in Tehachapi, on the Appalachian Trail, in Philadelphia, San Diego, Yosemite, Modesto, Massachusetts, Huntsville, Houston afraid of the future. Longing for the past. Trying to make the best of it. Trying to find my world. Running from myself, to myself. Formulating the possibilities of running to my mother, my father, my sister, my girlfriend. Wondering if I need that halfway place in Arlington to return me to where I need to be or if I need to be where I am. Where am I? In a place of uncertainty. I will probably remain there for a while. There is only one thing for certain. I miss you. If it were not for that, things might be much more definite.