Flagstaff

An older woman glances up from a cluttered desk in the Flagstaff post office. With maternal scrutiny, she eyes me up and down before smiling in that way older women do when they mean to feed you dinner or chastise you for getting mud on your trousers. 

She must have children, I surmise as she leans back towards her desk, scrutiny now aligned at the almost-antique computer monitor where lists of addresses scroll by in a pixelated fury. 

I step around pallets piled high with mail and lean away from employees pushing carts with expressionless faces, tuned out and unfazed by my presence before I arrive at the case to begin my sorting for the day. The case is a five-paneled fortress of mail slots, each addressed in no obvious order by the one hundred thousands, sticky notes with corrections jotted by some bygone employee protruding from dozens of them. It’s dismal. 

It’s 5AM so I pop in my headphones and begin ignoring everything, following the examples of my coworkers with little more than a “good morning” grunt between the dozen of them. 

Before embarking on my route with a bundle of parcels, I venture a glance in the restroom mirror. I look ill. Skin pallid from less sunlight than I’ve become accustomed to - with my olive complexion I look almost green in the fluorescent lights - or maybe I am indeed sick. 

I’ve admittedly gotten ahead in life by being a bit of a pretty boy, garnered affection from strangers like my middle-aged coworker in the other room, seeming altogether less threatening than the average man even despite some visible tattoos and an unshaven resemblance to Charles Manson. I tug at my face for a moment, giddying myself before heading off, eyes rolling.

I’m 28, and though I know this is young, a page has undoubtedly been turned. I’m expected to pretend better now, walk with more conviction, sport my conquests on my sleeve and speak resolutely about my convictions because, surely, I’ve had time by now to do my homework: I haven’t. I’m clueless. 

My skin and hair are ragged from the recent 800-mile hike through the Arizona desert. Admittedly I forget sunscreen all too often, and the UV index in Arizona was underestimated, as were other elements of the AZT. I can see where my skin will warp and sag with age in a way I’ve never before noticed, loose, with the faint beginnings of wrinkles at the edges at my eyes when I laugh or wince, both of which I do often. My eyes are sunken, as usual, they’ve always been. As a kid everyone suspected I was on drugs, even when I wasn't.

I recall that old reality for a moment as I push through the double doors leading to the parking lot, already bustling with mail trucks. 

This is the kind of job where you blink and wake up 65. I’ve been here one month. 

Lake Mary Road is mostly vacant still as I wind my way to Mormon Lake in the rental car my company has provided me with. The smell of rain on the asphalt creeps in through the cracked windows (I always crack the windows). The car is equipped with countless gadgets and features that I actively avoid for distraction’s sake, and it beeps incessantly at you when you drive without a seatbelt, even if you only take it 5mph. My own truck and I, through a series of agreements we’ve established across the country, have a much more silent bond. 

Half a day and one small

eternity later I’m soaking in a $12 truck stop bathtub, my biweekly ritual and a meager attempt at self-care. I’m sipping a room-temperature Miller Lite that I‘ve smuggled in with my laundry and everything feels decent. My body feels soft and awkward since the trail; my center of gravity changing as I find myself seated most of the day delivering mail or parked, hidden, on one of the many forest service roads skirting every edge of the city. Depending on which side of town, this could mean anywhere between 7 and 8,000 feet above sea level, not a poor altitude at which to sleep in the warm, pre-monsoon Arizona spring (edit: snow in May).

I don‘t presently feel in love with anything or anyone, though in a way I wish I could say I did. The city is charming, and the social climate is kind, but I'm saving precious reserves of energy for the future. That’s not to say I don’t choose to act out of love regularly, but it is an active struggle to. It’s become easy to disregard myself and my own needs, back here in the grind of a daily gig, and though I know everything will change again in a flash, I still can’t help but recall kinder times with each tune on my hiking playlist, at any speed, or in any context. This year, like last, is a contest in letting go. I’ve projected much, and fallen both ahead and behind of my own expectations. In many ways, I still process the events of two years ago, when I worked as a volcano guide in Guatemala. I miss my little apartment with the terrace and the spiral staircase, the orange tree in the back yard, and how Mami Blanqui would speak slow and expressive Spanish when asking about the volcano's eruptions and the weather at the summit. In the colorful local market in Antigua I would made my rounds each day for guacamole supplies. I had my cilantro lady, my tomato lady, my favorite stall with massive, ostrich egg-sized aguacates for a fraction of US prices, and the young girl in Mayan garb I'd buy chips from who would roll her eyes each time she saw me approach no matter how friendly I tried to be. I was mostly lonely there, trying not to expend my savings while I wasn't earning much from the tours, so I relished each minute interaction within my daily routine. I was sober at the time and had been for years, a crutch of its own kind when considering the wildness of travel culture in Central America. It was difficult to make friends, but mostly because I had chosen to live by my own weird standards, with little room to compromise. Since that chapter I’ve hurriedly finished recording an album, walked across the United States, driven East to West at every ideal angle, began and ended relationships which had no place in any timeline, other than their own, all seeming laughable now as I crawl into bed alone in the back of my truck parked in the forest, a thousand miles from the last place I called home and countless mental efforts since I've learned to internalize the very concept. I feel similarly alienated here, though it is far easier to blend in. I'm choosing again, to avoid endeavors that will shake my resolve - this effectively means other people. Remaining anonymous is easy on the trail, and even easier when you're a drifter in a mountain town where you're not the only one, and where anyone who isn't doing exactly what you're doing assumes the worst and pretends like you're not there at all.

I've allotted another month of saving here. My job is solitary and scenic, and though it allows me little time to explore I remind myself that I've chosen it to further the practice of minimalism, and that practicing so involves time management as well. This summer boasts promises of California, a reconvening with friends and a return to the High Sierra. It, those mountains, like everything else, seem light years away as I open my calendar and count the weeks.

I deflect texts inviting me out in Flagstaff tonight, citing sleep deprivation and logistics. Although neither of these are untrue, I wish I knew a more direct way to say simply, “No, I can’t because I’m not a whole person right now and I might never be so there’s no need to include me,” or also “Thank you but things are better this way because I always leave.”

Truthfully I can’t wait to. 

If you’re reading this and aren’t great at leaving: Don’t worry. 

Practice makes perfect. 

Technical update: I'm saving for a real camera to use on hikes and for this site, which I aim to keep more current as I head back west this year. I avoided writing for a bit because I have broader plans with it, which will manifest themselves eventually. I also plan to try my hand at video editing, mostly with vegan food stuff and goofy lifestyle shorts - stay tuned. Social media is losing its appeal to me while not hiking, and I share mostly memes and Instagram stories. This, I hope, will serve more as a home base. Thanks for reading!