Reno [mile -218/211]

“That’s a lot of luggage, little lady” drawls the man in the elevator. He’s eyeing my aged EuroHike black backpack, the orange waterproof sac of sleeping bag, the pyramidal bug tent and tarp tent and thermarest pad strapped to its outside. The mandatory bear canister, multiple epipens, a single tourniquet, some ramen, many Compeed and my hiking poles are inside the pack. I’m wearing a yellow floral dress over my horrible hiking outfit, thinking this might disguise the intent of my presence in this skyscraper casino hotel. But no. “I’m… going for a hike”, I tell the gent. He has no followup questions. I spend the night in a $44 king sized room and test the Garmin InReach device a friend gave me months ago. It asks for a better view of the sky. I stay in the air conditioning, laying out my ziplocked possessions like a sacrificial array on the carpet. Saying goodbye to showers and toilet paper and taps that offer hot and cold water and my own soft skin and any semblance of a hairstyle and real time WhatsApp banter and text threads and friends who pick up.
I send a checkin message from the Garmin. “Looks like you’re in casino near the meth spot” replies my friend. He is not wrong. I go for a walk around Reno and it’s all blinking lights and slots and motorcycles and pawn opportunities and storefront wedding chapels and Starbucks and bodegas full of camping gear and shot glasses and ceramic boobs. A woman walks urgently past me twice, unsmiling, torso bent parallel to the pavement. A girl in the bodega loves my yellow dress. I poke holes in it with a knife, carabiner the holes together, so it can function as plausible swimwear. I do laps of the outdoor pool, soggily flipflop my way along the pavement. A man approaches. “Do you need a card for the pool?” “Afraid so”. “What’s their attitude like in there?” “Pretty mellow, untalkative”. “Are you Australian?” “English, what about yourself?” “I’m indigenous, native American!” He gestures at his tanned-in tattoos by way of explanation. He tries to get me to go to the casino with him, I demure with a friendly-firm handshake and the confidence of a woman whose outfit is not held together by carabiners. I wish him all the luck. Back in my room, I abandon the yellow dress on a bathroom hook and don my hiking gear – trail runners, dust guards, grey athletic skort, bright orange race shirt from the “2st Annual Desert Donkey Dash in Tombstone AZ” (a race I “ran” roped to a recently-wild donkey named Johnny), a sunset-bright bandana from my cousin, the UPS baseball cap they gave me on the preload for my work ethic / “attitude”. I think I might need that reminder on the hike. And then I was off, slithering through the slot machines with my hulking backpack strapped tight, obviously what I am and will be for the next month: hiker filth.