It’s said that a downhill step in the Grand Canyon is equivalent to eons of time. (Unless you believe in a literal interpretation of the Book of Genesis. In that case it’s a zeptosecond.)
On my latest Grandview to Tanner Trail Grand Canyon hike, I too was on a journey through time. My time. It was 25 years ago in 1997 that I along with five fellow firefighters completed this amble and scrabble. A quarter of century later I traversed it accompanied by buddy Brad and his son Max. This time the hike was an introspective mental and physical workout. I pondered about personal and global events in that insignificant geological time span.
Our futures hold uncertainties. I’m not a Jewish Nostradamus. That 42 year old version of myself would have never predicted the zips, zags and reversals of my next 25 years. While backpacking I thought about my own time line.
In 1997, I was eleven years from calling it quicks as a firefighter. I wasn’t burned out from the 911 calls. It was more disillusionment over bosses more concerned about career advancement than the welfare of their crews. There was a new generation of firefighters who possessed a “Lord of the Flies” mob mentality. It was all fun and games until the mob turned on you.
On December 1, 2008, I walked out of Fire Station 14 for the last time. I never looked back.
January 2009: I packed up my belongings and moved to Tucson, AZ. I sold my wonderful 1902 Fort Collins Old Town home in an attempt to escape Colorado’s dark and cold seasons. For a restless guy like me a house is a storage unit. A residence became a home only when I had a loved one to return to.
Yet, Tucson was far from ideal. I called those four years my winters of discontent. In retrospect, moving to the “Old Pueblo” was a poor decision.
In October of 2010, while riding my bike in Tucson I was struck by a sedan. The insult to injury was the unwarranted surgery the Class Clown of Orthopedic Docs performed on me. In its aftermath, I had to relearn to walk.
On July 11th, 2011 the real game changer happened. Once again, I was struck on my bicycle. This time in a much more viscous manner. After coming to in a ditch, three doctors informed me I should be dead.. Life and death are full of surprises. Miraculously i healed in about nine months if you don’t count the scarring.
On July 11th, 2012 while on an extended road trip with Barley the Van, my Lawyer informed me the settlement from my near death experience had been deposited into my checking account. Yes, I made my money the old fashioned way. I sued for it.
On April 1st, 2013 in my final winter of discontent, I sold, donated and gave away all my stuff. Then I performed my favorite Tucson activity. I left it. This was the official start of my Homeless by Choice lifestyle. I had no idea of how long it would last or how it would play out. I knew it was time for a change after side stepping the Grim Reaper.
Everything I owned now fit in Barley the Van.
It didn’t take me long to realize there’s a stigma attached to living in a Van down by the river. Despite my friendly waves and smiles, people began to shun me. I decided to save them the trouble. I became a sociable hermit. (Yes there’s a blog to this phenomenon.)
Black Tuesday. AKA Election Day 2016. With the Q’Anon Disrupter calling the shots, America the Beautiful becomes America the Badass. (From the Oxford dictionary: tough, uncompromising or an intimidating person). I’m an old Hippy at heart. I burrowed deeper within myself.
By the fall of 2018, loneliness and my self imposed isolation were getting to me. The wandering lifestyle was losing its shiny coat. I began to develop an exit strategy. It was time to trade my license plate in for a real mailing address.
It came down between returning to the familiar, Fort Collins or unfamiliar Durango.
I chose Durango for it’s amazing location plus it’s liberal, Blue values. I began renting in August 2019.
By the Fall, I felt like I was making headway on the social scene. I joined non-profit organizations, began volunteering, attended numerous events and got my face and smile out there. I actually was meeting people!
March 16th, 2020. Covid Colorado goes into lockdown until Mid-May. The virus was awful (and still is) for all. I believe it was far worse for single folks. The social connections I made evaporated like the receding snow.
March 2021. I get vaccinated and yearn to return to “normal.” Not so fast, Sambini. Not all were boarding the vaccination train.
Summer 2021. I sensed the local lingering effects of a Covid hangover. I continued to social distance as I slept in Sanctuary Too (my camper and truck) more than my Durango home.
As I hiked through the Grand Canyon’s heat and geologic history, I came to this conclusion. I have to stretch my vocal cords and get back in the game. It’s time for me to put myself out there once again. My greatest fear isn’t getting lost, injured or sick. My worse case scenario is growing old alone.
If you read my personal time line, you’d think I’d gone from one calamity to the next. So untrue. In those 25 years, I traveled extensively, saw incredibly beautiful places and wrote lots of blogs (some lame, some poignant and a few whimsical).
I experienced being in love too.
Enough about me. Onto the Global scene.
Back in 1997, the state of the world seemed to be hovering between fat, dumb and happy/unhappy. Sure there were crisis’. That’s a given. But there was a general feeling that this too shall pass.
Could anyone have ever predicted this relentless cycle of Perfect Storms?
Accelerated Climate Change, a three year plus pandemic and a resurgence of chest thumping Nationalism. All at a period of human history where the villains don’t respect borders or carry a Passport. (Not even a Border with a Wall.)
In other words, we’re in a fine mess.
During the past quarter century I guesstimate I’ve read between 1250 to 1500 non-fiction books. I’m a history buff. Mostly pre-Civil War to the present miasma. I’m no Nationalist. I read world history too.
This is what’s shockingly Day-Glo clear to me. Since America has entered into the Age of Trump, we’re emulating Nazi Germany of the 1920’s-1930’s. The picture is complete with a major political party’s adherence to Joseph Goebbels’ propaganda playbook. Bombard the masses with the “Big Lie” ad nauseam until it becomes Gospel. Of course, I’m referring to the myth of the“Stolen Election.”
My fellow Americans, Democracy is now at risk. The January 6th, 2021 attempted coup was equivalent to Hitler’s “Beer Hall Putsch.” A mere warm up.
In 2024 the violence will be broader in scope, bloodier and better organized.
derail this future political train wreck. Sorry to say, I consider this option an obese possibility.
The only other exit I see is a take from history.
Tyrannies end when the tyrants succumb to the Great Inevitable. IE: Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini and Franco.
I know, sobering stuff. I wish the world could reset back to 1997 where when we were fat, dumb and vacillating between happy and unhappy.
Until then, I’ll squeeze as much socializing, sightseeing, hiking, camping and reading in as I can. They’ll be time for Happy Hours and blogging too.
Jeff
Last photo: a trowel makes a great spoon when the original gets left behind.
