As the Kansas wheatfields faded further into the distance, and then even the melons of Rocky Ford yielded ground, the Coloradan countryside finally started to shift. Wild onions lined the highway shoulder, while trucks loaded with their domesticized peers ripped past. Ranches expanded, with cows and hogs gaining prominence, and even the occasional llama. Some of the changes that I noticed, though, weren’t just new to me–they were relatively new to Colorado.
“Did you see all the hemp around Lamar?”, Frank asked me. I hadn’t. Frank, a cattle rancher near Pueblo, was helping me make sense of the changing landscape. “They’re growing a lot more of it now, for the medical benefits, for the CBD oil,” he explained. Frank differentiated hemp production from THC, and indeed Colorado does as well. “If you see a fence, it’s THC.” If inspectors find any THC in a hemp crop, meanwhile, they apparently burn the whole thing down.
After I made an offhanded remark comparing Colorado and Kansas, Frank cuts me off with a laugh: “Kansas hates Colorado, man.” He told me that Coloradans routinely get pulled over by Kansas police, because of the state’s legalization of marijuana. I wondered if these were just anecdotal grievances, but the facts check out. Kansas police had used Colorado plates as justification to pull over drivers, and while they were smacked down by the courts there are always work-arounds. The stories of “pot profiling” continue.
While those shifts in land use were interesting to note, I had eyes only for one thing–the appearance of the Rocky Mountains. However, just as they were due to come on stage, clouds swept across the landscape like curtains, blocking my view of the west for the better part of two days, all the way through Thursday morning, as I departed Pueblo.
Not that I could have seen anything, anyway, given the thick darkness that prevailed over the city. I was, though, as excited for a walk as I’ve been in weeks. I joined the Arkansas Riverwalk and headed west on the cement track that would be my constant companion for the day’s first ten or so miles. My lightweight long-sleeve shirt was just enough warmth on one of the trip’s cooler mornings, as fall finally began to descend upon Colorado.
Far from roads and before most Pueblans had extricated themselves from bed, I reveled in the peaceful walk, the river’s flow and my light footfalls offering only the most minimal intrusion on my crepuscular march. As dawn slowly broke, I passed a group of deer, and we hesitantly appraised each other before going our separate ways. The geography paired harmoniously with the emerging daylight, with Pueblo’s deeper river gorge giving way to increasingly open terrain, the world literally opening up around me.
The walkway climbed gently around the large Pueblo Dam, bringing me to Pueblo Lake (not a lot of creativity on the nomenclature front around here) and its 60 miles of shoreline. While a moderately-trafficked road fell in alongside me at this point, it couldn’t break the thrill of the scenery. Neither could the persistent clouds, though I imagine it’s genuinely spectacular to see the sun rippling across the broad lake.
It couldn’t last forever, and before long I left the recreation area and moved into a suburban residential neighborhood, cleverly called Pueblo West. By this point, we were well into the workday, and the streets felt largely deserted, so I strode brazenly down the middle of each road, enjoying the occasional adobe home or Old West decor. And then I suddenly stopped in my tracks when I encountered Camino Santiago Drive. Thousands of miles from Spain, from a second home of sorts, it was uncanny to find it here, so easy–and yet impossible–to miss. A smile crept across my face and I marched onward, ten pounds lighter.
Eventually, Pueblo West gave way as well, discharging me back onto Highway 50, four lanes wide at this point, with plenty of traffic ripping past at speeds in excess of 70mph. And yet, even in this moment, joining the objectively worst part of this walk, I felt exhilarated. Hawks whirled overhead, while to my left, in the massive Walker Ranch, herds of deer bounded through the hills, chasing one another as they sped into the distance.
Miles passed and before I knew it, I was offroad once more. A rural road led me through modest hills, and at this point the clouds dissipated. Suddenly, the Rockies were in front of me, to the left and to the right of me, closer than I could have imagined. So too was the Holcim industrial cement plant, a massive blot on an otherwise spectacular scene, but that couldn’t get me down either, because Portland was just ahead–that’s Portland, Colorado, the tiniest of hamlets.
At last, I entered the final approach to Florence, my day’s destination, coming at the end of the easiest and most enjoyable 37-mile walk in the history of hiking. I had spent the day listening to Pete Buttigieg’s Shortest Way Home, thanks to a suggestion from a comment on the blog early in the trip. While there’s plenty to say about the book, as I type I’m stuck more on the title, which comes from a longer quote from James Joyce’s Ulysses: “Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”
Escape is a major concern in Florence, given that it’s one of the incarceration centers of the US, with one of the country’s most notorious prisons located no more than a mile from where I laid my head. The ADX Florence, a “supermax,” took maximum security and turned it to 11. Many of the most infamous perpetrators in recent American history have ended up here. You don’t even need to see their names to know who they are–the Unabomber, the Shoe Bomber, the Atlanta Olympics bomber, El Chapo, and the so-called 20th hijacker on 9/11. These men spend 23 hours alone every day, in windowless cells. Imprisoned for life in one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen on this trip, it’s hard to know whether the lack of windows is an added punishment or a mercy.
Thursday’s long walk around the Arkansas River transitioned into Friday’s short follow-up, a mere 10 miles to Cañon City. The sun broke the horizon and suddenly a full rainbow took shape just west of me, a stunning apparition that kept me frozen. Eventually, though, I had to start walking. The first half of the walk won’t go on any highlight reels, following a minor highway with heavy morning traffic and the narrowest of shoulders, but soon enough I left it to join a riverside walkway, rejoining my old friend, the Arkansas. On this bright and sunny Friday morning, it was filled with locals–an older jogger, happy couples, small groups of friends, and lots of dogs. It felt more than a little like Forest Park, descending towards Lower Macleay park.
And it hit me, then, that today is homecoming back at school, and while my own homecoming remains more than a week away, home has found me here–Camino Santiago Drive, Portland, a Forest Park tease. Here I stand, 1800 miles into this trek, and the longest way round has me thinking more and more of the short distance that separates me from home.
As my friends and colleagues gathered tonight in Portland, for the most noble of causes (to beat OES), so too did friends and neighbors gather in Cañon City. It’s Oktoberfest, so the intersection at 4th and Main is closed for bratwurst, beers, and dancing (with a little lederhosen on the side). Meanwhile, it’s also “cruising night,” which brings together many town elders (and their equivalently-aged vehicles) for a ride around town.
The sun sets over the mountains and I bid farewell, content, rejuvenated and eager for the final days of this journey.
