I had my first ‘Wild’ travel experience while trekking across the Darien.
Setting off from the launch point at Bajo Chiquito, the broken trail braids itself throughout the corkscrew course of the Turquoise River.
Even in the dry season, the Río Turquesa is no measly spring runoff nor cow piss trickle. It’s a formidable pile driver with a depth and flow that California’s thirsty hydrologists would ache to divert and channel.
Nor is crossing it the dainty child’s play of hopscotching over rocks and tiptoeing through the shallows. It’s a muscle-wrenching trudge that feels like power-walking against the mechanical fury of a flour mill.
An early afternoon rest stop on the first day is when I noticed a problem with my Merrell boots.
The rubber rears were cracked and peeling, mimicking the stress across my own trail worn face and back, although both the double-stitched leathers and my own aching sinews were still holding together at the stress points.
Throughout that afternoon and starting early the next morning, I uttered a silent prayer with each step, although neither prayer nor footstep could be heard over the rushing current as here the grade grew steeper.
Before noon of the second day, the whole rears were gouged and disintegrating, along with my hopes of remaining properly shod throughout the remaining four days of the crossing.
Later, as we sat on a rock under the shade of a tree, I reviewed the carnage.
“I should chuck these off the mountain like Cheryl Strayed in ‘Wild’,” I said to Greg who sat smirking beside me, “and, what do you think? Maybe REI will send me new ones?”
“Sure. They can helicopter new Merrells in at that clearing ahead!”
We had a good laugh, which is sometimes the best you can do in the toughest of situations.
We were laughing while surrounded by heartbreaking migrants in far more difficult straits than our own because refraining from humor amidst hardship isn’t a sign of righteousness or respect.
It’s like choosing to fight with one arm tied behind your back.
