Part 9

Oracle to Kearney: The Prometheus of Poo

“Do you not realize that I’ve had diarrhea since Easter?”
—Ignacio, Nacho Libre (2006)

Much of the land after Oracle is a flat expanse between mountains. A good place for music, audiobooks, or conversation. The trail flew by for once, and with Mt. Lemmon a recent memory, Ice Cream and I were grateful to have some cruisy ground to hike on; it leaves plenty of breath for conversation, and we used all of it to dive deep into how our upbringing had affected our psychologies and our strategies for overcoming weaknesses we had inherited from our ancestors. And, as Forrest Gump says, That’s all I have to say about that.

Our current goal was a water catchment, a large, mushroom-shaped metal tank installed to catch rainwater for hikers and wildlife. This may have been the first time in my life that I was clumped into the same category as wildlife, and I quite enjoyed the idea of being classed with the birds of the air and the creatures that crawl on the earth—beasts of the wild, the coyote, the snake, the hiker. All looking for that good-good water.

Wind was blowing everywhere when we arrived at the catchment. It flapped our clothes and tried to steal my hat more than once. We approached, looking for where to get water, and found a note taped to the side of the tank. Trail magic in the wildlife tank. Please pack out the trash. Enjoy! Someone had left little bottles of cranberry juice and some cheap beer for us. I had one of each, but Ice Cream skipped the beer.

Trail magic beer floating in a wildlife/hiker tank. Don’t worry, there was a spigot on the other side for humans, but the water was probably the same.

The sun was hovering somewhere near noon, and we were hungry, so we ate lunch there. Not to mention, it’s always good to eat by water when you can, if you cook your meals. While we ate, a familiar face appeared. A tall, lanky man with a graying beard wearing a shirt with a wild pattern and a sun hat with an orange neck flap. It was Wayward, a Rhodesian triple crowner whom we had first met at Patagonia.

Since he was a fast hiker and was behind us, I knew he’d probably explain why he was here, so I gave him the opening. “Wayward! What a pleasant surprise.”

“I forgot my battery bank back here,” he said. “I had to go seven-point-five back to get it.”

“Man,” Ice Cream said. “I’m not sure I would have done that.”

I nodded. “Mini hero move.”

Wayward sat down. He must have left his pack back where he had turned around; he was only carrying a water bottle with a filter screwed on top. “That’s what my friend said. Why not just go into the next town and get another one, but I don’t know. I knew right where it was.”

“You mind if I get your photo while you’re here?”

“Sure.”

Wayward was definitely one of the fastest hikers on the AZT this season, excepting people going for speed runs or other shenanigans, and he was a cool guy to boot. He even left water comments on FarOut. 10/10 would recommend hiking behind him.

Wayward!

He left before we did, anxious to hike the seven and a half miles back to his pack. As we packed up, another hiker showed up. It was Neiman Marcus, a dark-skinned forty-something who might have been of Indian or Nepalese heritage with a West Coast demeanor and sound to his voice. He recognized our names from the trail registers and was excited to finally meet us. We knew how it felt, to finally put a face to names you’ve seen for days, or even weeks.

“You heard about the Gila?” he asked.

Ice Cream and I shared a glance. She knew how I felt about this topic. “Yeah, we’ve heard,” I said noncommittally.

“Yeah, I’m going to fill up in town,” he said.

“Good luck,” I told him. “We’ll all need it.”

“You?” he asked us.

“We’ll take our chances with the river,” Ice Cream said.

Neiman Marcus checked his phone. “There are supposed to be some good water drops up ahead. I’m thinking I’ll fill up on those, too.”

I imagined hikers with noro diddling their bungholes and opening the caps of the trail magic water. I could almost see the microscopic viral particles dancing around in their water bottles, preparing to breed in their GI tracts and blast out again as fresh vomit and diarrhea. “Sounds good,” I said. I rarely try to explain away other people’s certainties. After COVID, I realized just how little people understand about microbiology and epidemiology. There are three things I now don’t discuss at the dinner table: the old staples, religion and politics, and, now, communicable disease.

After a little more chat, we left Neiman Marcus to finish filtering and headed out in Wayward’s footsteps. The wind hadn’t calmed down, but we felt warmer now that we were moving again, and soon we were in the zone, just gliding down the trail, still flat and friendly, with only the occasional cow as a distraction. We camped that night near a wash and fell asleep to the sound of desert quail, which sound a little bit like peacocks when they call and like songbirds when they chirp. As I lay down, eyes still open, staring at the tent, a single raindrop splattered against it. Then a few more fell, but the desert could muster no more, and it didn’t rain during the night.

We woke early and were hiking as the sun rose. The quail had long ago wandered off and gone to bed, and now the desert songbirds were singing in their place. Crisp, chill air had replaced the wild wind of yesterday. I started off in my fleece while Ice Cream flexed her cold resistance and simply wore her shirt and shorts. Like the day before, our goal was a water catchment for wildlife, the last water source before either going into Kearney or drinking from the Gila River.

So, while we’re at it, let me explain my thoughts on that topic. Norovirus loves turning your insides into a volcano of vomit and diarrhea, and spreads faster than a rumor in a small town—handshakes, doorknobs, water faucet handles. In Kearney, with 2,000 folks rubbing elbows, one sick hiker is all it takes, and sick hikers gravitate to towns like moths to a flame. Just 18 viral particles can wreck you, and one strong puke can spread 10,000-100,000 viral particles over an area of 10-25 feet. Finally, it clings to surfaces like Prometheus to a rock, surviving there for 1-4 weeks.

Speaking of Prometheus, that Greek god punished by Zeus for sharing the secrets of fire and civilization with humanity, let us now picture some poor sap—let’s call him the Prometheus of Poo—chained to a rock at the bridge near Kearney, spewing noro-laced puke and poop several times a day. The river’s cranking at 100–200 cubic feet per second in April, diluting that mess fast. For Prometheus, shedding billions of particles daily, you might see 10–100 particles per liter two miles downstream. A single poo or puke, with maybe 10^9 particles, drops to 0.1–1 particle per liter at that distance. Those particles could linger a few days to weeks should they find a shore-side surface to stick to, but they’re spread thin. Finally, the clincher: Sawyer Squeeze filters. Norovirus is 27–38 nanometers (0.027–0.038 microns) wide. True, Sawyer Squeeze filters have 0.1-micron pores, but they trap smaller particles via what filtration scientists call a “tortuous path” and adsorption, achieving 2–4 log virus reduction. Therefore, Sawyer filters reliably remove norovirus, making filtered water safe if used correctly. Therefore, even with a Greek God of Shit continually blasting his bowels into the Gila, the river was safer than town, and, since there is no Santa Claus or Prometheus of Poo, it wasn’t even a question which option was safer.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. Back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Ice Cream and I ate lunch at the water catchment, the same as the day before. This time we had the pleasure of meeting A.Z., a small, dark-haired, speedy-looking hiker. She appeared as we were leaving, and we didn’t chat long, though I’m sure we talked about the Gila. She passed us at a gate and went cruising down the trail. She reminded me a little of a hiker I knew briefly on the AT. Something about the way she moved, bobbing up and down as she zipped away.

This time, though, I had a fire under my feet, as I occasionally do. I gave Ice Cream a kiss, told her she was an angel, and with her angel’s blessing, I started to trail run. A.Z. was setting the pace, and I made a game of catching her. The game was complicated by the gorgeous views that appeared as we climbed out of the lowlands and into the mountains. We weaved around open ridges through saguaro, the desert far below. Sometimes I would look behind to see a tiny Ice Cream; once we saw one another and threw our arms into the air and blew kisses across the valleys. Each time I stopped to take a photo or look for Ice Cream, A.Z. gained on me, so I readied myself to put my nose to the grindstone and trail run. Before I could, though, I noticed a blue ball cap in the trail. It was strange that it was there at all, since the wind had picked up again. I had long since taken my hat off and put it in my stretch pocket. I picked up the hat. It had an image of a circle cut through with an arc on it. Something science-y, but I didn’t know what it was. Wondering if the hat were A.Z.’s, I stowed it alongside my hat and thought if it weren’t hers, maybe I’d keep it. It had a sick style.

A tiny Ice Cream waves from hither-yon on the mountain.

Eventually, I managed to pass A.Z., though by now she was also trail running a bit. Unfortunately, I then took a wrong turn down a wash and had to find the trail again. I should have backtracked, but having learned nothing from the Flex incident on Micah, I went up and over a mountain. As a reward, I got another jumping cactus in my hand, but I knew now how to deal with it. It hurt, and was a bit bloody, but I got it. Once back on trail, I began to run again. Now, don’t imagine that I was completely motivated by competition. The pizza shop in Kearney, Old Time Pizza and Deli, delivers to the trailhead near town, and I wanted to get there in time to place an order. Ice Cream and I had decided on the Arizona Trail Pizza and some Big Red, along with an order of ice cream.

I ran for pizza, for justice, and the American way.

Eventually, I passed A.Z., who was resting along the side of the trail. The hat remained in my pack, as I forgot to ask her if it was hers.

When I got to the trailhead, I sat down on the water supply box, and still panting from running, called the pizza shop and put in the order. Victory.

A.Z. showed up a few minutes afterward. To my amazement and her joy, the hat I had found was hers. She had written it off as lost when the wind had ripped it from her head on one of the mountain crests. It turns out that A.Z.’s real trail name was Azimuth, which became Az, which became A.Z. The hat had been a gift and was loaded with sentimental value. Some things just work out right, and it feels good when they do.

A.Z. moved on—she was going into Kearney—and Ice Cream arrived. We set up camp near the road and waited for the pizza man. After he arrived, we blessed him profusely and then ate in our tent. The pizza was so good I began to sing the national anthem. The soda was heaven, and the saint-of-a-delivery boy had even given us a large cup of ice. While we hovered in food ecstasy, I accidentally ate too much of the ice cream.

“Did you just eat the rest of the ice cream?” Ice Cream asked me.

I snapped back to reality and stared at the bowl, first in shock and then in shame, like a guilty dog. “Oh no. I’m sorry.”

Ever an angel, Ice Cream only punished me with her sweet, sweet laughter. “We can get more in the next town.”

The sun went down, and we lay down to sleep. As my mind began to shut down, a little mouse approached from under a nearby prickly pear. He sniffed near my nose, but when I moved, he bolted away to safety. As my thoughts turned to dreams, the mouse came again into my mind, this time with the power of speech, and explained to me why it was safe to eat the pizza crust of the giants.

Unless given express permission for their use, all names and trail names in my articles have been changed. Any resemblance to real people is coincidental.

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