Every morning when I went into the cafeteria to have breakfast before my 4 AM shift, the same 20-year old was working. His greeting to every person that walked through the door was the same.

“Good morning! It’s a beautiful day to be alive!” He must have said that a hundred times every day.

During my first few weeks in Naknek, I didn’t exactly appreciate his enthusiasm and optimism. After all, I was exhausted, cold, sore, and had 16 hours of “fish-filled-fun” ahead of me. Was it really a good morning and a beautiful day to be alive? Seemed like a stretch.

That was my reaction to him when I was focused on merely surviving as a salmon processor. Then I realized, thanks to infuriating techno music and a period of meditation in a bathroom stall (see Part II for the rest of the story), that surviving this challenge and making some money was not enough.

I wanted to make the most of my time in Naknek and experience some peace and contentment along the way, which was hard given the long work days, the physical and mental challenges on the assembly line, and a lack of free time (amongst plenty of other obstacles). I reasoned that the best way to accomplish that goal was by enjoying as many moments as I could along the way. If I took action and made concerted efforts throughout the day – every day – to create, recognize, and enjoy those moments, I was hopeful my experience would improve.

It made sense to start small. Although the majority of my schedule was dictated by Leader Creek, I had the power to squeeze as much enjoyment and peace out of every ounce of “Ben time” at my fingertips. My 47-minute morning routine was where it began. Instead of thinking about the arduous day ahead after I woke up, I did my best to focus on what I was doing in the moment, no matter how trivial it seemed.

I reveled in the peace and quiet of the dorms in that early morning hour. I slowly sipped my lukewarm coffee that had been cooling in my thermos overnight. I inhaled the clean scent of a freshly washed hoodie as I stretched it over my head. I listened to the crunching of rocks under my brown rubber boots as I walked the 100 yards between the dorm and the mess hall.

After the cafeteria worker’s overly enthusiastic greeting, I sat down with my oatmeal in a quiet corner of the mess hall and said a simple prayer of thanks. I got into the habit of praying before every meal, which guaranteed a minute of peace and spiritual connection three times a day. 

There were other opportunities throughout the day to create peace and live in the moment, too. During break times, I would sit at a picnic table outside the mess hall, drink a cup of coffee, and observe my surroundings. I felt at peace when I looked at the purple and yellow Johnny Jumpups in the small gardens next to the patio, stared at the clouds overhead, or listened to happy, chirping birds.

At the conclusion of every shift, despite the weather or my exhaustion, I walked to my meditation spot next to the river. Some evenings I’d sit and watch the water flow towards the ocean. Other nights, I would walk along the shore and pick up rocks. I found that one of my hair nets made for a great rock hauler, though I discovered it maxed out at about five pounds.

After the 15 minute stroll, I ate a quick dinner and returned to my dorm for a shower. After laying out my clothes for the next morning, I reclined in bed, put on my headphones, and turned on a meditation mix for a few more minutes of relaxation before falling asleep. Five hours later, my alarm sounded, and a new day began.

Even if the day went to hell in a handbasket (which it did numerous times), I knew my morning and evening routines, mealtime prayers, quiet time on breaks, and a meditation/rock hounding walk would provide an impressive number of peaceful moments given the circumstances.

After a few days of embracing this new mindset and taking some action, a peculiar thing happened. I began viewing things in a different light. My eyes slowly opened and I began taking note of some of the beautiful things happening all around me.

I began to look forward to that enthusiastic morning greeting in the cafeteria. I recognized Leader Creek’s unofficial greeter was trying to create some positivity (for himself and others) by bringing his sunny disposition to dreary Naknek. His welcome eventually lifted me up and put a smile on my face. His positivity gave me something to aspire to.

One of my favorite moments at Leader Creek came 10 days into peak season. Naknek in late June and early July felt little like summer. Highs were in the 50s, the wind howled, rain was common, and seeing the sun was rare. If the sun did make an appearance, it was typically for minutes.

In usual Naknek fashion, it was an overcast, showery day. It poured rain on the walk into work and during first break. At lunch, the rain let up, but clouds stuck around. When we were released for our afternoon break, glorious blue skies and sunshine were waiting. For the first time since I had been in Naknek (a little over two weeks), there wasn’t a cloud in sight.

Everyone was shocked as we emerged from the damp plant and shielded our eyes. It was as if the world had been turned upside down. A dozen of us stood outside the main door to the plant, looked to the heavens, and allowed the sun to warm our faces. Those who had their faces angled towards the sky were motionless and smiled from ear to ear. After the 15-minute shot of Vitamin D, the atmosphere in the plant was brighter, lighter, and happier afterwards. If I was entirely wrapped up in my own personal struggles, I wouldn’t have noticed or appreciated the beauty to be found in that communal sunbath.

Outside of work, I had a promising routine down pat and was experiencing plenty of peace. But I still spent 16 hours of my day processing salmon. It took longer than it should have, but I eventually embraced the simple fact that I wasn’t alone in the struggle. Every one of my coworkers that saw the season through – about 75 percent – battled the same fatigue, machine noise, health ailments, and music. Though it’s worth noting some of them enjoyed the techno. Everyone worked 16-hour days, including shift leads, the security team, cafeteria workers, and the HR bosses.

Instead of taking work too seriously and feeling like I needed to conquer Alaska alone, I made a choice to embrace the comradery. It led to some great friendships and plenty of enjoyment. We created memorable moments on the assembly line playing the ABC game or betting on how long it took someone to go to the bathroom. We talked about where we wanted to travel after the season, which was almost always somewhere warm. We had sing-a-longs to Kelly Clarkson’s Since You’ve Been Gone, Tom Petty’s Free Fallin’, and Blink 182’s All the Small Things. I joked with other bald coworkers about how ridiculous it was that we needed to wear hair nets given our lack of hair.

Some conversations turned serious and heartfelt. One of my roommates and I had an impactful discussion about spirituality as we filleted salmon. Others opened up about struggles from their past – myself included – and what led us to this ridiculous job in Alaska. We talked about how we were coping with the lack of sleep, time away from loved ones, and the lengthy stretch of cold work days.

“We’re almost there” was a common pick-me-up when we walked into the plant for the last quarter of the shift. There were plenty of “Atta boys” at the conclusion of another long day as we exited the plant with sagging shoulders and distant, blank stares.

Without an amazing group of coworkers and roommates, the season may have gone much differently. I was immersed in my own personal struggle, but when I finally embraced I wasn’t going through it alone, I had the opportunity to share all the ups and downs of the experience with others. We developed an unmatched level of comradery and understanding as a result. Knowing we weren’t going through it alone helped everyone to keep going. Finding some joy and sharing a few laughs along the way always helped.

By July 17th, the salmon were still coming in, but at a much slower rate. We still worked 16-hour days, but the processing pace slowed down considerably. The end of the season was in sight.

On July 21st, my name was on a flight manifest for the 22nd. I was going home. In a moment, my time at Salmon Boot Camp seemed to come to an end. I had only been in Naknek for 35 days. It felt like the blink of an eye and a lifetime all at once. Tony had been right. It had been the “Longest, shortest, five weeks of my life.” 26 straight days of work since the beginning of peak season concluded with an eight-hour shift.

After that final shift as a processor, I had the rest of the day off to pack, sleep, and prepare for the journey home. After a well-deserved nap, I divvied up 30 pounds of rocks into three bags and gathered the rest of my things. I placed my favorite Alaskan calming stone in my pocket and went to dinner to say goodbye to some new friends.

That evening, Naknek gave me an incredible parting gift – sunny skies. It seemed like a waste to miss out on the rare, clear night, so I took a 12-mile walk down to the Bering Sea. I wandered the coastline for an hour and patiently waited for the only sunset I witnessed in those 35 days.

I reflected on my time in Alaska, revisiting the highs, lows, and all the powerful moments in between.

Embracing powerful moments didn’t make the challenges magically disappear. I still felt tired, frustrated, sore, and cold. There was a steady flow of anxiety that went hand-in-hand with the never-ending stream of salmon. I exposed myself to a new world filled with unfamiliar obstacles. Seldom was it easy.

Thankfully, I did much more than survive with ten fingers and a few more bucks in my pocket. I experienced levels of joy, contentment, and peace that I didn’t think were possible given the circumstances. I didn’t feel that way every second of every day, but was that even possible?

Alaska taught me that no matter what kind of struggle I face – whether it’s a self-imposed challenge like Leader Creek, or I’m in the middle of dealing with one of life’s curveballs – joy, contentment, and peace can be experienced. They can come from small moments I create. They can be found in my surroundings if I take the time to look. Or they can be shared with those around me who are also a part of the journey. The caveat is I always have to take some action to experience them.   

The beauty of this adventure required some effort to experience. I had to look past the challenges and needed to silence the nagging doubts in my head about whether I was up to the task. I had to put in the work to find some peace inside of me and open up my eyes to witness the unforgettable moments that were present all around me. Moments were my guiding light in Alaska. Embracing the struggle simply gave them more purpose and meaning. And in turn, those powerful moments made the challenges worthwhile.

The fact that I can always find moments of joy, contentment, and peace, regardless of what obstacles life throws my way, is a comforting thought.

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, its reflection bounced off the sea and the moist mud flats in the foreground. A fitting salmon sunset with shades of pink, orange, and yellow stretched clear across the sky.

For a minute, my focus shifted to life back home. Would I have enough landscaping work to carry me through the fall? Would my car start after sitting in the driveway for five weeks? Were my plants still alive? What was my life going to look like this winter? I pushed those thoughts aside and reminded myself that none of that was relevant right now.

All that mattered was that breathtaking salmon sunset that God was painting right before my eyes. I rubbed the smooth black rock in my pocket, brought myself back to the present, and let one more powerful Alaskan moment take me away.

A rare sunny evening at my meditation spot along the Naknek River.

Roommate and great friend Nick after my last shift.

A fitting salmon sunset over the Bering Sea on my final night in Naknek.

***A heartfelt thank you to my parents, siblings, friends, and all my brothers and sisters in recovery that continue to support my off-the-wall endeavors. I couldn’t live the life I live without every one of you.

***To Leader Creek Fisheries – Thank you for doing everything within your power to make this challenging employment adventure a success. The food was phenomenal, the water in the shower was always hot, and the HR staff/department leads treated me with respect, grace, and an astounding amount of empathy.

***To my coworkers – We did it!!! Thank you all for sharing so many incredible moments along the way.

And to everyone who took the time to read this series, thank you for joining me on the journey.

Ben

Excitement and nervous energy flowed through my body as I hopped in a line of 50 salmon processors to begin day one of work. The line began at the plant entrance and stretched around a corner, down a few stairs, and ended near the door to the mess hall. The smell of eggs and bacon wafted out of the cafeteria as mosquitoes buzzed through the air. After a few minutes, we lurched forward.

Inside, a Leader Creek security guard was barking orders.

“Wash your hands! Grab an apron! Gear up! Let’s go!”

Work attire consisted of a hairnet, a beardnet (for those with facial hair longer than 1/4 of an inch, which I qualified for), a plastic poncho, latex gloves, safety glasses, and Leader Creek approved rubber boots. By the time I was “geared up,” my body was covered in plastic from the neck down.

After dipping my hands in a vat of sanitizer, I took a deep breath to calm my nerves, only to inhale a cold shot of moist, salmon-infused air. A light cough escaped my lungs. I walked with the other first-day-fillet-employees around a few corners as hip-hop music blasted on the plant’s speakers.

We entered the fillet room and I was immediately blown away by the size and scale of the operation. Five lengthy conveyor belts were suspended on a metal platform four feet above the concrete floor. Bits of fish littered the wet ground under the platform, as if a salmon bomb had been detonated in the massive, windowless room.

I was in a daze, distracted by the sights, sounds, and smells of the stimulating environment when a guy in his mid-20s wearing plastic orange overalls tapped me on the shoulder and motioned for me to follow him. We walked up five stairs onto the platform.

“Cut here,” he said as he pointed to a vacant spot next to the blue conveyor belt. He pulled a fillet knife with an eight-inch blade from a basket that was hanging over the belt and handed it to me without any direction. I looked at the knife, then at the salmon that were slowly approaching. Any training here? Do they just hand any schmuck in a smock a knife?

Thankfully, there was another cutter to my right. I watched him make two effortless cuts, one to the bottom of the fish, and one to an area where I reasoned the head used to be. I took another deep breath. A fillet lurched in front of me and I did my best to emulate what he had just done, though it was tough to hit the moving target. I made a sloppy cut and mangled the bottom third of the salmon. A second fish approached. I achieved the same result. Another lead stepped over and grabbed the knife out of my hand.

“Is this your first time cutting?” I nodded, resisting the urge to be a smart ass and ask him if it was the mangled fish or my blatant uneasiness that gave me away. I thought it best not to mention my phobia of fish.

“Truth be told, I’ve never held a salmon, let alone cut a fish. It’s my first day.” He nodded as a wry smile crept across his face.

“That’s pretty common for first season employees. Long, easy strokes, just like this.” He demonstrated on the next fish that moved by. “Just cut the belly and the collarbone,” he said. I watched his knife glide across the belt with ease. “Just try not to take too much meat.”

He handed the knife back to me. I butchered a few more fish before making several proper cuts. Wielding a knife would take some getting use to. I decided that if I managed to avoid cutting myself (or someone else), day one would be a success.

There was a break in the action after about an hour and I had an opportunity to look around and take in the surreal surroundings. About 50 people donning white, yellow, or blue aprons were crowded around two conveyor belts as hip hop music continued on the speakers. I could see my breath when I exhaled. Machine noise pierced the air. Black mats that covered the steel floor were soaked in ice-cold water that was running off the conveyor belts. An assortment of salmon scraps had collected around my feet and my apron was dripping water. Now I understood the rubber boots and ridiculous plastic poncho.

A half dozen department leads, all wearing orange suspenders, watched our every move. This didn’t feel like a summer adventure. It felt like I was working at knife-point in some post-apocalyptic world.

Hours were pretty light during the first week in Naknek. We worked six to eight hours days, which helped me get somewhat comfortable with the new work setting and the different jobs I’d be performing in the fillet department. I typically cut salmon, plucked pin bones, or loaded fish into the deboning machine. Regardless of the position, I was always hunched over a conveyor belt, completing some monotonous task.

By June 27^th, peak season arrived. Tender boats delivered hundreds of thousands of pounds of salmon twice a day. The plant began operating on a 24-hour schedule, which meant 16-hour shifts for all workers.

My first full shift got off to a promising start. I entered the plant at 3:51 AM, donned my stylish blue poncho and beard net, and walked to the assembly line. I chose a spot picking bones. Classic rock was playing on the speakers. I plucked the early morning away as AC/DC and REO Speedwagon rocked the warehouse.

Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” came on. Half of the workers on five conveyor belts sung along to the chorus. The surprisingly beautiful moment gave me goosebumps. In retrospect, it was an early taste of some of the incredible camaraderie I would experience over the next month. A smile came across my face and I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. 

After the 15-minute morning break, I returned to work. The optimism I felt after a nice morning became a distant memory. I was asked to fillet fish for the next eight hours before I could return to the bone-picking line. By the end of my first 16-hour day, I had blisters on the thumb and pinkie of my cutting hand, which was also sore from the repetitive cutting motion. I had a tough time holding a fork at dinner that night without wincing in pain. Additionally, my back ached from being hunched over all day. I have never been a fan of taking Ibuprofen for soreness, but had no qualms about it in this scenario. I needed to utilize every tool at my disposal to make it through the long days.

After a few 16s, I fell into a simple routine. My usual shift started at 4 in the morning and ended at 8:30 in the evening. I discovered 3:07 was the perfect time for my alarm to jolt me awake. It gave me just enough time to pound some coffee (brought over from the mess hall the night before), brush my teeth, apply foot powder to my feet, get dressed, eat breakfast, and clock in 10 minutes early. Being on schedule for the first 43 minutes of the day became a fun game, if not a borderline obsession. If I was walking to breakfast any later than 3:32, I was running late.

Days were broken into four “quarters,” with a 15-minute break or lunch, coming after each segment. I focused on making it through four hours at a time. Each break served as the light at the end of a tunnel. Making it through four tunnels meant I completed another day. After the workday was over at 8:30, we had to be back on the line in a measly 7.5 hours. After factoring in dinner, a shower, and the morning routine, five hours of sleep (which was often a challenge due to snoring or coughing roommates) was the best case scenario.

After several days, I began to understand why Leader Creek ran the plant like a military installation. I wasn’t spending six weeks of my life in Alaska. I was spending it at “Salmon Boot Camp.”

In order for the plant to operate 24 hours a day without issue, everyone was expected to adhere to a strict schedule. No easy task for someone who is self-employed in the “real world.” Three security guards were tasked with enforcement. If someone failed to clock in for the start of a shift, a member of the security team would visit their room, bang on the door to wake them up, and usher them into work. Breaks were 15 minutes and not a second longer. Department leads would release us for our 15 and everyone would exit the plant in an orderly fashion. If people were dawdling at the conclusion of break time, a guard would walk through the mess hall or break room and yell “Fillet, fillet, break is over! Get back to work!” The plant ran like a well-oiled machine, not skipping a beat during breaks, meal-times, or shift changes.

There was a certain novelty to the experience during the infancy of my work contract. Everything in Naknek was different from my life back home. Although it was challenging and anxiety inducing, the change was refreshing. I was excited to get out of bed and put myself through the wringer. It was refreshing to let the rest of the world melt away. With limited internet access, spotty cell service, and long days, there was very little time to get involved in anything that didn’t involve salmon. I happily dropped off the face of the earth and immersed myself in the experience. I enjoyed it for a short time. Within a few days, the”honeymoon period” ended, challenges compounded, and I went into full on survival mode.

Despite a steady dose of ibuprofen, my back, feet, and hands regularly ached. Short nights of restless sleep started adding up and I was always tired. Unless I was taking a hot shower or was curled up in bed, I always felt cold. The weather in Naknek was typically overcast, drizzly, and chilly. Highs topped out in the 50s. It was even cooler in the plant. Ice cold water was constantly running over the salmon making their way down the conveyor belts, dropping the air temperature 10 degrees, and increasing humidity. You could always see your breath. The cold seemed to start at my feet (despite wool socks and boot liners) and travel throughout my body.

I caught the relentless “Naknek hack,” which made me feel even more miserable. The cough was everywhere. Coworkers on the assembly line, in the cafeteria, and in the dorm hallways were afflicted, too. For me, it never went away and always seemed to worsen at the most inopportune time – right when I laid down to go to bed. Cough suppressants were no match for the hack. Initially, the cough was coupled with sinus pressure and headaches. When those went away, congestion set in. A runny nose followed the congestion. By the time I stopped “draining” (as my mother would say), I picked up a sore throat. I was pretty well prepared with everything I packed, but I didn’t expect to need five weeks of medicine for my “whackamole cold.” I packed enough for 14 days. Thankfully, the onsite nurse had some extra to share.

Everyone battled some sort of cold ailment during their time at Leader Creek. After weeks of feeling like crap, I accepted I’d likely be sick for the duration of my stay. The cold, damp, work environment wasn’t conducive to feeling better. And getting more rest was out of the question. The only way to get time off work was to be actively throwing up on the line, have a high fever, or by catching pink eye. I avoided all those. Daily doses of cold medicine controlled the symptoms to some degree, but I never felt like a spring salmon during the work contract.

Going into the season, I was able to anticipate many of the challenges at Leader Creek. My solution was usually to grit my teeth, power through, and survive one day at a time. But as unexpected challenges surfaced, it became evident that strategy wouldn’t always work. Especially when techno music was involved.

I bellied up to the conveyor belt to begin another 16-hour day about a week into peak season. Techno was bumping on the speakers, and I despise techno music. By that morning, I had clocked over 100 hours in the previous seven days. Those 100 hours, along with restless nights and the cold working conditions, had taken their toll on my body.

My back ached more than normal, the “Naknek hack” was alive and well in my body, and dark, heavy bags hung underneath my bloodshot eyes. I looked like I was coming off a hellacious drinking bender, or I had lost a boxing match with a prize fighter the previous night and had the black eyes to prove it. All I could think about was my aching body, exhaustion, and that terrible techno noise some people call music.

I tried to turn my focus to the stream of salmon in front of me. I counted fish after each successful cut to distract myself. I started at one and tried to get to 100. I only got to 20 before the bump bump bump of the music drew my ire once more. I daydreamed about vacationing on a beach somewhere after the season. Visions of palm trees and sparkling blue water held my attention for a second before the music resumed its beating on my eardrums.

This is the wrong music for a processing plant. What happened to the classic rock? If we were in a club called the “Dancing Salmon” with strobe lights, scantily dressed women, and men in muscle shirts, I would have understood. Instead, 100 weary processors are crowded around conveyor belts, wearing UPS brown Xtra-Tuff rubber boots, latex gloves, hair nets, and colorful plastic ponchos. My head spun as I focused on everything that was wrong in that moment. This was a terrible dream I needed to wake up from.

This is exactly what you signed up for. This is exactly what you signed up for. While that was true, it didn’t change the fact I was stuck. I couldn’t escape that moment or my agitation with an hour-long walk. I couldn’t reach into my pocket and stroke my Alaskan calming stone. I couldn’t pick up the phone and talk it through with someone. After two hours of techno, I realized I was faced with a choice. I could continue to spin out and become increasingly aggravated by the music, or I could do something that would help. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I got the attention of a department lead and asked to use the bathroom.

There was a small restroom that stood alone next to a series of picnic tables outside the mess hall. The door faced away from the often busy eating area. To my pleasant surprise, not many people knew it was a single stall restroom. It looked more like a storage shed. 9 out of 10 times, it was vacant.

I made my way to the plant exit, tossing my latex gloves in the trash and rinsing the salmon off my apron on the way out. I quickly walked down the stairs to the restroom and locked myself inside.

I basked in the solitude of the quiet, peaceful, and impeccably clean bathroom. I shut my eyes, took a deep cleansing breath, and said “This techno shall pass,” “Breathe,” and “God help me.” Within moments, I felt rejuvenated. I looked at myself in the mirror and murmured a few more positive affirmations before returning to the plant. By the time I was back on the line, I was calm.

The DJ was still spinning techno, but it didn’t bother me after my trip to the “meditation spa.” I made it through another two hours (with techno playing the entire time) before morning break. I didn’t lose my mind (completely) or lash out at another person due to my frustrations. That wouldn’t be the last of the techno music, or moments of near break-downs, but it was a small triumph in a personally challenging moment. The DJ changed the music when we returned to work. Taylor Swift never sounded so good.

After “techno day” ended, I went for my usual evening constitutional. I sat next to the river and took in the peaceful surroundings. The silence was deafening compared to those four hours at the Dancing Salmon. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I flashed back to the moment I stepped away from the conveyor belt and sought out my makeshift meditation spa. I had survived that challenge, and the catalyst for making it through was taking action and creating a moment of calm. That beautiful moment in the bathroom (six words I never thought I would write) seemed to hold a deeper truth for something that was missing from this Alaskan experience – appreciation for small moments of peace and contentment. In an instant, my ultimate goal in Naknek shifted.

I didn’t just want to survive as a salmon processor. I wanted to find ways to be happy and content, despite all the things around me that made it an uncomfortable and challenging experience. I reasoned if I could find those things here, I could find them anywhere. Leader Creek presented an incredible opportunity to find joy, peace, and serenity in an unlikely place. But how? Maybe that moment of peace in the restroom held the key. It may have been simple and brief, but it had a powerful result.

I flashed back to the Creedence singalong on my first full day. I remembered my walks along the beautiful Naknek River, the Alaskan calming stone, and trips to the Bering Sea. I thought about the delicious salmon cakes I had eaten for lunch, and the coworkers I shared the meal with. I had already experienced some great moments in Naknek. They were just easy to forget when I was wrapped up in the challenges of the experience, or when my anxieties took over.

What else was I missing because I was so focused on surviving? I thought more about how I approached my time spent in the plant. I took my job so seriously, you would have thought I was performing open heart surgery all day. What if I tried to enjoy work, and made a point to engage more with my coworkers?

Surely, impactful moments were happening all around me, but I needed to take the time to see them, appreciate them, or create them. What if I started collecting those moments? Would it help me forget about the challenges? Was there a way I could actually be happy, serene, and content here, despite all the obstacles?

I snapped back to reality and remembered I needed to be back on the line in seven hours. I hadn’t even eaten dinner yet. But before I stood up, I took in the river for another minute, soaking up every peaceful moment. That was a great place to start.

LCF uniforms. A matching bandaid. And 10 fingers! Pictured is my friend Red from Oklahoma.

There were numerous murals around the Leader Creek campus, adding some splashes of color.

An appropriately named boat, I’d say!

It was 10 PM on June 19th, and in true Alaskan fashion, was still light outside. I hopped off an aging yellow school bus with 50 of my coworkers as a few raindrops pelted my face. A cool breeze blew in from the ocean to the west, sending a shiver through my body. Overcast skies made the boats and storage containers that filled a massive dirt lot across the street seem eerie, even sinister. After 20 hours of travel, which included one car ride, three flights, and 45 minutes on a rickety school bus, I had arrived at Leader Creek’s facility in Naknek.

We unloaded in front of a massive two-story building with blue aluminum siding and white trim. The property had two dorms numbered 14 and 20. Dorm 14 would be my home away from home for the length of my employment contract.

Members of the human resources team asked us to form a line after we retrieved our bags to check in and get our room assignments. We grabbed our dinners out of a cardboard box that sat in the very back of an old white work van. A dry ham sandwich on white bread with two slices of American cheese, a bag of chips, and an orange were supposed to hold us over until morning. That initial “feast” set the bar pretty low for what the food would be like for the season.

I lugged my 50 pound suitcase, small duffel, and backpack into room 105 and met my roommates. There were six beds in the larger-than-expected room. I thought we would be crammed in like sardines. I met Nick, Ray, Javier, Enrique, and Vaughn before quietly putting my belongings into a large wooden cabinet next to my bed. I sat down as the other guys happily chatted, but offered little to the conversation. I was overwhelmed by the unfamiliar surroundings and had been around throngs of people all day. I needed to be alone.

After forcing down the underwhelming dinner, I wandered around the property. A handful of anchored boats were visible as I walked down a lengthy hill and approached the massive Naknek River. The boats sat motionless in the water, patiently waiting for salmon. Seagulls squawked as I approached the riverbank. Water gently lapped the rocky shoreline. I looked down and noticed a beautiful black rock, smooth as glass, at my feet. I picked up the silver-dollar-sized-stone and carefully stroked the smooth surface before placing it in my pocket. My anxieties brought on by the surreal surroundings were momentarily put at bay thanks to the peaceful setting and that small rock.

In the spring of 2023, I entered my third season as a self-employed landscaper. I had been stationary in Colorado Springs for two years and the itch to travel, or simply do something different, was at the forefront of my mind. I wasn’t unhappy, but I was restless and had grown complacent in many areas of my life. I needed a change and a new challenge. I applied for a job as a salmon processor with Leader Creek back in 2020, but due to COVID, withdrew my application. The timing didn’t feel right.

Leader Creek popped into my head on a cold March night. I visited their website and saw they were hiring processors for the season. During my interview a few days later, I got more insight into the position.

Tony, who has been with Leader Creek for eight seasons, didn’t mince words about the gig. He explained that the work environment is loud, wet, cold, and not surprisingly, reeks of fish. The work itself is monotonous and mentally draining, regardless of the department. 16-hour days, with no time off, was the norm during peak season, which lasted three to four weeks. I would be tired, sick, and short nights of sleep were a foregone conclusion. I’d live with five random men, share a bathroom, and everyone ate in a cafeteria. It sounded like college, but with long work days and the constant aroma of fish.

“My first season was the longest, shortest six weeks of my life,” he told me with a surprisingly fond tone in his voice.

Ultimately, Leader Creek offered an experience that was opposite of the life I had grown accustomed to over the previous two years. I’d go from living alone to sharing a room. The clear Colorado skies of my landscaping “office” would be replaced by the walls of a damp and noisy processing plant. Rocks, mulch, and plants would become sockeye salmon. My entire schedule would be dictated by someone else.

Truth be told, it sounded miserable. And yet, I hadn’t been this excited about something in a long time. It would test my ability to adapt to completely new surroundings and give me an opportunity to overcome anxiety, which is something I have always struggled to deal with in healthy ways. It would be a mental and physical challenge. And it would certainly help me overcome my phobia of fish. Plus, I’d make a pretty good chunk of change. I looked at it as an exercise in extreme exposure therapy. Ultimately, I wanted to be uncomfortable. I wanted to feel like a fish out of water and I couldn’t wait to see if I could survive the challenge, with all 10 fingers attached.

The months leading up to my departure flew by as I buttoned up landscaping jobs and searched for ways to improve my mental toughness. I purposefully dug up grass and moved rock during the hottest part of the day. I took cold showers for a few weeks to create anxiety and breathe through it. I worked 12-hour shifts with an event company that required me to stand still, observe patrons, and ensure everyone was behaving themselves. I guarded fences and watched doors for events like Monster Jam and Motorcross. Hello noise! It was mind numbing, which made it ideal training for work on an assembly line.

By June 19th, my suitcase was packed with long underwear, beanies, rain gear, a variety of polyester and wool shirts, thrift store pants, and 12 pairs of smart wool socks. I included a roll of moleskin, foot powder, and as I would soon find out, not nearly enough cold medicine. My dad, bless his heart, took me to Denver International Airport at 2 AM and wished me luck with a lengthy hug and a hearty I love you. 16 hours later, I stepped off the yellow school bus.

Bristol Bay in Southwestern Alaska is home to the largest sustainable sockeye salmon run in the world. The run typically begins in late June and lasts for about a month. The salmon hatch in freshwater systems in the area’s watershed, migrate to the sea and reach full adult size, and return to the freshwater areas (swimming upstream) to spawn, and ultimately die, after several summers. The number of fish caught is closely monitored so enough salmon can complete their life cycle and sustain healthy numbers. The exclusively wild Bristol Bay catch supplies 46 percent of the world’s sockeye salmon. Between 1990 and 2010, the average inshore run of sockeye is a whopping 37.5 million fish per year. 2022 was a banner year, with an estimated run of 70 million fish, which led to record catches and processing numbers. Leader Creek processed a whopping 21 million pounds of sockeye in 2022!

During a three-hour orientation in the morning following my arrival, I gained more insight into Leader Creek’s processing operation. The fishermen are the first cog in the wheel. A fleet of about 50 boats catch the sockeye and deliver them to larger boats called tenders. The tenders bring the fish to the company’s private dock on the river at high tide. From there, the fish are pumped up a hill through massive black tubes and into storage tanks.

The fish house handles the salmon first. They “drain” the fish on the slime line by removing the guts (talk about a gut wrenching job), and chop off the heads and tails before removing the roe (eggs). Then they’re sent to the fillet department, where I was assigned. In fillet, each salmon is sent through a splitter where the fish is cut in half and the spine is removed. Afterwards, they travel down a conveyor belt where the membrane, belly, collarbone, and any errant fins or bones are trimmed with a fillet knife. Then, the salmon are sent through a machine that removes the majority of the small bones. After the deboning, a line of workers picks bones that the machine missed with flat-nosed tweezers. At the end of the bone line, the fish are graded and sent into the next department.

The best fillets are sent to Vac-Pack where they’re sealed in plastic. Lesser graded fillets are loaded onto plastic trays and kept cool until they arrive in the packing department where they’re sealed up in boxes. Refrigerated storage containers await the salmon after they are appropriately packed. Eventually, they make their way via boat to Seattle, where Leader Creek sends them out to retailers.

After orientation, we had some down time and anxiously waited for the salmon to arrive. I was thrilled to have some free time (which would be a non-existent luxury soon enough) because it gave me the opportunity to explore the area on foot.

Naknek is a unique place. “Downtown” is three miles west of the plant on the Alaska Peninsula Highway, which is the only paved road in the area. There are only 470 year-round residents, but during fishing season (primarily June through September) thousands flock to the coastal town to work on boats, in the fisheries, and at other supporting businesses. The highway was lined with processing plants, dorms, lots filled with boats, and acres of massive storage containers stacked 100 feet high. Tractors towed boats down the two-lane road as seafood workers wandered the highway shoulder.

The most happening spots on the walk into town were a coffee shop and the public library, thanks to the free Wi-Fi. Phone service in Naknek was spotty at best. 50 people sat outside each building with their heads buried in their phones, putting the establishments’ bandwidth to the test. Three bars, a grocery store, a trading post, the chamber of commerce, and a restaurant made up the central portion of town. Out of curiosity, I stopped by the grocery store to see how expensive things were in this corner of the world. A Crest toothbrush was 10 dollars. A 16 ounce jar of Jiff ran a whopping 11 dollars. A box of pop tarts? Eight bucks. I’m glad Leader Creek footed the food bill.

After passing another half-dozen processing plants, I hit Bristol Bay and the Bering Sea. Close to the water, mud flats threatened to gobble up anyone or anything that didn’t keep a safe distance. A wide stretch of rocks of varying sizes and colors separated the mud flats from 100 foot cliffs that towered over the coastline. I wandered the rocky coast for some time, enjoying the ocean views, and looking for more cool rocks. I was able to take three lengthy walks down to the water before work truly picked up.

These walks were for enjoyment and gave me an opportunity to explore the area, but they were also a necessity. The dorms, cafeteria, and break room were packed with people and I couldn’t match the social energy of my coworkers. All the activity (and a lack of peace and quiet) left me in an anxious and overwhelmed state. My brain was constantly racing. Walking calmed me down and helped me cope with the nervous energy I felt.

I was able to recognize that I needed new ways to deal with that anxiety and other challenges in order to survive my contract. Walking for four hours every day wasn’t a feasible solution to deal with the stresses of the salmon life once work started. That time was earmarked for sleep.

On the first night I was in Naknek, I strolled down to the river and picked up that smooth, black rock, and continued to keep it in my pocket. After a few days, I realized whenever I was feeling anxious, worried, or nervous, I put my hand in my pocket and started rubbing the rock. Much like walking, it helped calm me down by grounding myself in the moment. It gave my overactive brain something else to focus on. My “Alaskan calming stone” was another tool I used to deal with the anxieties and challenges of the new experience. Walking and a single rock wouldn’t be enough to carry me through the challenge, but it was a start.

News travels fast at a processing plant that employs 400 people. After a few days with no fish and no work, word spread that the sockeye had reached the Naknek River and were swimming upstream. Fishermen were hauling in fish, and the tenders would begin delivering them to our dock. Excitement buzzed through the cafeteria and the dorm hallways. Our summer of salmon would begin the next morning.

The Naknek River from Leader Creek’s property. This spot would become my favorite place to meditate, unwind, and enjoy some solitude.

The Alaska Peninsula Highway in “downtown” Naknek.

Bristol Bay and lots of rocks.

I parked my trusty Honda Accord in the shade of an Eastern Red Cedar 50 yards from the sandy shoreline of Cedar Bluffs Reservoir. To the south, limestone cliffs tower over the water. To the north, cottonwood trees along the shore quickly give way to native prairie and fields of harvested wheat. The sun set over the water as I set up my tent. I paused to take in the brilliant shades of orange and blue that framed the glassy surface of the lake.

It was August 11, and this would be my second 24-hour walk attempt in Kansas. The first try in June was a failure. I threw in the snot-and-sweat-soaked towel after 11 hours. I was getting over a gnarly cold and probably shouldn’t have been walking in the first place, but wanted to give it the ‘ole college try. I hated to quit, but “discretion is the better part of valor” as my dad says. I simply had nothing left to give after 30 miles of walking.

The fact I hadn’t reached my goal the first time around really stuck in my craw. Initially, I planned on tackling Kansas again in the fall when temperatures are cooler and the cottonwood trees burst with color. But I ended up with a free 48 hours after a landscaping gig got cancelled. Heat be damned, I wanted to go for it.

After a restless night of sleep, I started pushing PJ – my noble three-wheeled-steed – at 8 AM, bound and determined to travel gravel back roads for 24 hours.

The landscape was different in August than it was earlier in the summer. In June, the native was lush. Blooming prairie sunflowers, purple coneflowers, and wild white indigo added splashes of color to the green grasses swaying in the breeze. Now, a dry summer left the prairie brown, parched, and dusty, other than a few plots of healthy sorghum and corn.

PJ and I ticked off miles, reaching 10 in three hours, 20 in six, and 40 by sunset. The 98 degree heat was sweltering (sending the neighborhood cows to whatever shade they could find), but low humidity made it a manageable, dry heat. A strong southerly wind added a little relief.

A nearly full moon rose shortly after dark, illuminating the road and eliminating my need to use a headlamp. I eclipsed 50 miles at the 17 hour mark. Fatigue set in and I needed an energy boost. I popped off my shirt, Dennis Reynolds style, and cranked up “Werewolves of London,” singing along and howling at the moon to pass the time.

60 miles in with three hours to go, I faded fast. Every step on the uneven rocky roads sent a shot of pain through my feet. My legs felt like cement and my mind was playing tricks on me. Bushes blowing in the breeze looked like demonic antelope. An occasional sound from behind had me convinced I was being followed. Sleep deprivation and exhaustion can have strange effects.

I wanted to stop. My sleeping bag called to me like a muse in the night, begging me to lay down. I reached my breaking point, thinking I had nothing left to give, much like I had on my previous 24-hour attempt in the Sunflower State. After all, nobody cared whether I walked 50, 60, or 70 miles. This was my adventure. I could stop anytime. I could even slink into my sleeping bag and nap for an hour, start walking again, and slowly plod through another few miles. My will and preparation got me this far, but I reached the end of what I was capable of.

With every labored step, I debated how to tackle the last three hours. Stopping, or even slowing down, felt like a half measure. I got brutally honest with myself and reflected on the last six months of my life. In a lot of areas, I wasn’t giving my all. I was only partially dedicated to my book. I put forth minimal to moderate effort in relationships. I went to the gym regularly but wasn’t exactly pushing myself. Other than my recovery from alcoholism, it had been a while since I was “all in” on something. I was generally happy, but wasn’t striving for more. In that moment, I had a choice. I could quit and continue with the theme of half measures, or I could go all in. Those three remaining hours were an opportunity to give all of my heart and soul to the task at hand.

But how could I muster the energy and strength to keep going? My gas tank was running on fumes. Then, something inside of me called out to my Higher Power.

“Give me strength. I give it all to You.”

The words came out slowly and without any thought. I repeated the simple prayer over and over. My voice became progressively louder and more passionate with each recital. Within thirty seconds, I was yelling.

Goosebumps covered my entire body as tears welled in my eyes. A shot of unexplained energy pulsed through my body and my pace quickened. I went from depleted to energized. A feeling of warmth, light, and love engulfed me as I ambled through the moonlit prairie. I was in the midst of a spiritual experience. I powered through the next two hours in a state of pure spiritual euphoria.

With an hour left on the clock, I did the unthinkable (for me anyway). I “jogged.” It was a slow, clunky process. I moved more like an inebriated donkey than a gallant steed, but pushed through the pain that coursed through my body. I repeated the Serenity Prayer and clung to the moment, turning off any thoughts regarding the past or future. I was immersed in the struggle, my Higher Power fueling every excruciating, exhausted step. I relished every moment.

By the time the clock struck 8 AM and 24 hours were up, I traveled 70.2 miles. I collapsed on a rock for a reflective moment. I wanted to comprehend what had just happened.

In those moments of despair and exhaustion, I was able to tap into a spiritual energy that wasn’t of me. It was patiently waiting, deep inside. But I had to seek it, and ask for help. I am convinced with all my heart that energy lies within every one of us, untapped and ready for use. And, from my perspective, it’s there to apply to facets of life that are outside the realm of arduous physical endeavors.

In those trying moments of this walk, I felt like I reached an important moment in my life. A turning point, perhaps. During my walks across the country and other physical challenges, I’ve certainly pushed myself to extreme physical limits, but I have never sought that untapped reservoir of spiritual possibility. Those last three hours of effort were not of me. My will took me 60 miles. Something much bigger and more powerful fueled and guided the last 10.

Spirituality is unique to the individual and it’s not my intention to push my beliefs on anyone. All I can relay is my experience. This one was powerful, enlightening, and moving. My hope is that this story encourages you to question where you are in your spiritual journey. What lies inside of you, waiting to be tapped? How far can that spiritual energy take you, and how can you apply that to everyday challenges? The next time you’re faced with a big roadblock or hurdle, I implore you to tap in, instead of tapping out. You may be amazed by the results.

Three Favorite Pictures

Sunflower 24-Hour Stats

Miles – 70.2

Steps – 140,000 (ish)

Shirtless, Howling-at-the-Full-Moon Miles – 22

Song of the Walk – Getting Started, Sam Fender

Ounces of Peanut Butter – 24

Rattlesnake Bites – 0

Blisters – 3

Shoe Changes – 2

Shooting Stars – 8 (Thanks Perseid Meteor Shower!)

Gallons of Water – 3.5

Kansans that Offered Rides – 3

With love and gratitude, Ben

Walk On!

There is a lot to love about walking across the U.S. The adventure. The challenge. The uncertainty. The mental and physical stress to the body. But one of the problems is an obvious one – it takes a while. I have an insatiable adventure itch that needs constant scratching. While my walks across the country make that itch go away for a while, it always comes back with a vengeance.

A mere six months after finishing my third cross-country trek, the itch returned. I scratched it by packing up my old Honda Accord and heading for the East Coast. I spent six weeks on the road and completed a combination road/walking trip. I visited family and friends between the Springs and Washington D.C. Once I hit D.C., I left my car at my Aunt Peg’s house and walked from the Lincoln Memorial to Point Park in Pittsburgh with a backpack. The 342 mile jaunt took 19 days.

During the walk, I had an idea. What if I walked for 24 hours….straight? How far could I go? I was enamored with the idea. It sounded physically daunting, mentally grueling, and sleep depriving. It sounded perfect. And if I liked it, maybe a 24-hour walk every few months would adequately scratch my adventure itch and allow me to pursue some other challenges without walking off the face of the earth for months on end every few years.

On my way back to Colorado, I found a bike path in Eastern Indiana called the Cardinal Greenway. I pitched my tent at a nearby campground, left my vehicle, and prepared to hit the trail.

On October 27th, 2021, I began my first 24-hour walk at 10 AM with the intent to walk at least 60 miles. The first 40 miles went well. But by 2 AM, the walk got hard in a hurry. I began seeing things in the trees. I held an hour-long conversation with my new backpack, Joseph. I was almost positive he answered back a few times. The pain in my feet was excruciating. My back ached. I hobbled around like an arthritic 80-year-old man for the final 10 miles. And then the sun came up. I had a beautiful, soul-cleansing cry as I watched the sun rise over a cornfield.

I took over 130,000 steps and walked 62.4 miles with a 20 pound pack during those 24 hours. I pushed myself harder than I ever had physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. And just like that, I fell in love with 24-hour walks.

The afternoon after finishing, I had a lengthy conversation with my best friend, Shea, who lives in Windsor, Colorado. Shea is an incredible athlete in his own right. He took first place in his age group at USA Nationals in the triathlon in 2007. He hasn’t competed in years, but runs between 48 and 54 miles every week. Dude can run!

I told him how much I had enjoyed my 24-hour walk, and that it pushed me to the brink, physically, mentally, and emotionally. To my disbelief, he was interested in joining me for one. It’s tough to find someone willing to spend 24 hours straight with me. Let alone someone willing to WALK for the entirety of that 24 hours. We set a tentative date for early January, 2022, to give us ample time to put together a fundraiser and continue training. We decided to call our walk the “Frostbite 24,” considering Colorado is usually cold in January.

Over the next two months, we both trained. Shea continued with his running and started taking 15, 20, and eventually, 30 mile walks. I spent the first five weeks back in Colorado doing yard cleanups four days a week. I only walked 10 miles during a typical eight hour day, but stayed fit by lugging around full bags of leaves and raking.

Planning a walk with another person was a new experience. All of my trips prior to the Frostbite 24 were solo adventures, so I only had myself to answer to. It was enjoyable to discuss the intended route, training, and logistics with someone else for a change!

Shea and I decided to incorporate a fundraiser into our journey. Although I accepted donations during my previous walks, I didn’t fundraise in the traditional sense. Any donations went directly to lodging, gear, and peanut butter. We chose the Larimer County Humane Society as the organization to raise funds for. With their help, we set up a personal page directly through their website and decided on a goal of $1,000. Any money donated went straight to the LCHS. The fundraising effort was a worthwhile and educating one.

Our original departure date was set for January 2nd. A few days before beginning, we both completed a 30-plus mile walk. Shea covered 32 miles in nine hours in Windsor. I walked 36 miles in 12 hours while pushing PJ around Colorado Springs. We hit all the hot tourist spots; Garden of the Gods, Manitou Springs, Weidner Field, and Prospect Lake. Shea had never covered that far of a distance on foot (though he came close running marathons). And while I have walked more than thirty miles probably 100 times, it was essential to break down that mental barrier again. Walking thirty miles takes time, stamina, and the mental strength to actually do it. Once that barrier is broken and you realize you can (or remember you can), it become easier the next time. Our sixty mile walk would simply be two thirty mile walks. At least that’s how I looked at it.

We were both as ready as we could be as our start date approached. But Mother Nature had different plans. I drove up to Fort Collins on New Year’s Eve to spend an extra day scoping out our route and wandering around my alma mater (Colorado State). A massive snow storm moved through on New Year’s Eve and Day, dumping eight inches of snow on Northern Colorado. There wouldn’t be enough snow melt or plowing before we hoped to start walking. We made the sensible choice and postponed our walk for a week. Truth be told, Shea was the voice of reason. Plus, PJ is not a snowplow, and can only handle a few inches of the white stuff.

Six days later, I headed back up to Fort Collins, ready to give our adventure another shot. I stayed with Shea and his girlfriend, Jackie, the night before our journey began.

On January 8th, we loaded PJ into the trunk of Jackie’s car with extra clothes, shoes, water, and food. Jackie dropped us off in the Island Grove Park parking lot. We loaded PJ up and began our overnight journey at 10 AM.

Armed with hot coffee, layers, full stomachs, and sunglasses, Shea and I began our jaunt down the Poudre Trail. The paved trail connects Greeley and Windsor and closely follows the Cache La Poudre River. The scenery around the path was spectacular. We walked by farms, reservoirs, bird sanctuaries, wet lands, and enjoyed incredible views of snow-capped Longs Peak and the Front Range.

We steadily covered miles as the day went on, breaking our planned 60-mile stroll into 10 mile segments. After 10 miles I looked at Shea and said “You can’t walk 60 miles unless you walk 10.” When we hit 20, I said “You can’t walk 60 miles unless you walk 20.”

Just before dark, we hit the end of the trail and began a five mile stretch on county roads. We needed to walk two county roads in order to cross the interstate and get into Fort Collins. At that point, we were seven hours and 23 miles into our walk. We turned on our headlamps and prepared for two hours of road walking.

Thankfully, we enjoyed well-plowed trails and road shoulders for the first 25 miles of our walk – until we reached the sidewalk that crossed Interstate 25. There was a 100 yard stretch (uphill, of course) that wasn’t cleared. Six inches of snow and ice covered the sidewalk. PJ was impossible to push through the wintry mess. The only option was to carry the overloaded cart up the lengthy hill. Shea picked PJ up by his front wheel, while I got down into a squat position and lifted the back. We awkwardly made our way up the hill, taking a quick break at the halfway point. By the time we reached a traffic light and saw a clear path ahead, we were out of breath. We both agreed we brought way too much shit.

We reached another bike path a mile later and walked a few more miles before we met up with our support crew for dinner. Dean and Eileen had a fresh batch of coffee and piping hot macaroni and cheese for dinner. After sunset, the temperature dropped into the low-20s and the wind picked up, which discouraged any dawdling. We stayed warm while we walked, but became chilled to the bone quickly if we stopped for more than a few minutes. We scarfed down dinner and resumed our walk after the longest break of our journey – 10 minutes. Shea’s folks returned to their hotel for the night (it was 6 PM). We were on our own for the overnight.

We hit the 30 mile mark nine hours into our journey and were on the far east side of Fort Collins. The real test of our mettle and determination began at that point.

We spent most of our time in Fort Collins walking the Spring Creek Trail. The trail meanders along the banks of Spring Creek through the middle of the city and eventually ends near CSU’s campus. Even though the moon was only half full, we didn’t need to use any lights walking on the paths in Fort Collins. Eight inches of snow, lit up by the moonlight, added a surprising amount of light and guided us through the quiet urban forests along the trail.

We took a brief detour to visit the new football stadium on campus and snapped a couple photos next to the dueling rams statue in front of the field. From there, we walked back to Spring Creek Trail and continued west for another four miles before turning around and starting our walk back to Windsor. We approached the 38 mile mark when, all of a sudden, PJ became incredibly difficult to push. Initially, I thought he was being a petulant child and didn’t want to keep walking in the frigid air. Upon further review, we realized his left tire was completely flat.

The last thing I wanted to do was stop and change out the tube, which was a 15 minute process under ideal conditions. By that point, we had been on the road for 13 hours and I wasn’t firing on all cylinders. Changing the tire would likely take twice as long as usual. I simply pumped it back up and hoped the tire sealant that was already in the tube would plug the hole.

We headed east and hoped for the best. Three hours later, with all tires still fully inflated (hooray!) we arrived back at the interstate and our first of two county roads that would lead us back to Windsor. It was 2 AM. I looked at Shea and said “We are two-thirds of the way there,” meaning we had been walking for 16 hours (and covered 46 miles during that time).

Then, it was as if we both simultaneously realized we had another eight hours of walking ahead of us. It seemed like an insurmountable challenge at the time given the cold and our exhaustion.

We paused for a moment and focused on getting through the next hour. I cranked up some Def Leopard (Animal, of course) and we kept moving forward.

We passed the next several hours alternating between walking in silence and sharing stories. The most notable and humorous of which involved me telling unfortunate bathroom tales from my walks across the country. Shea had a few entertaining ones, too, but they weren’t quite as “messy” as mine. TMI?

3 AM and 4 AM came and went. We were still averaging a 3 MPH pace and decided we wanted to walk 70 miles, if at all possible. We were at 54 miles at 4 AM, and for some reason, walking another 16 miles seemed less daunting than walking for another six hours.

With six hours to go, we were mildly delirious and our feet hurt, but our spirits remained high. We decided to walk to Windsor Lake a little earlier than expected and spend our last four hours doing the 2.5 mile lap around the lake. It promised to be a great place to watch the sunrise, too.

It’s been pointed out to me by several regular blog readers that my writing makes my walking adventures seem easy. I think part of that is I often don’t go into great detail about what struggles I face during a particular stretch, whether they are physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual. Not wanting to sound like a complainer (given I am the one who subjects myself to these challenges) is at the crux of it.

So I will be crystal clear and transparent when I describe the last four hours of our 24-hour walk. THEY WERE THE TOUGHEST 12 MILES I HAVE EVER WALKED. Every step sent shots of pain through my feet. My legs felt like limp noodles that were simply swinging from my body. My brain was in a sleep-deprived fog and had difficulty stringing together coherent thoughts.

The struggle was real, but that is exactly what makes challenges and adventures like this worthwhile. Your body and mind tell you “You can’t keep walking. Why are you doing this? Quit.” Despite the objections, you keep going. You push through.

Shea and I pushed each other (not literally, but we were close). We challenged one another NOT to quit. We reminded each other that warm beds, showers, and food awaited on the other side. We just had to get there.

The sky started showing the first signs of light at 7 AM and gave us both another morale boost. We made it through the night and to the home stretch. Shea’s folks showed up right on cue, too, bringing with them hot, sugary drinks from Dutch Brothers.

They walked with us for the last five miles, adding a nice distraction.

Our last two laps around Windsor Lake were a slow affair. After essentially walking straight for 22 hours, the cold may have finally done me a favor by numbing my feet and legs. They hurt, no doubt. But the pain wasn’t excruciating. I put Walk the Moon’s One Foot in Front of the Other on my headphones and disappeared into my own little world for 30 minutes.

Shea and I met in the summer of 2020 in Colorado Springs. I was reeling from a breakup that I couldn’t blame on anyone but myself and was in a bad place, mentally and emotionally. I was three years sober at that point and had no idea I could end up in such a dark, scary place without alcohol being a factor.

He helped me through it. When I talked, he listened. When my ass was on fire and I drove myself crazy, he talked me down from the metaphorical ledge. Within months of meeting, I found a new best friend in Shea. He enriched my life and became a pillar of support I desperately needed. And now, I was about to complete a 70 mile walk with him by my side.

It’s tough to put into words the feelings I had after we finished our walk. I was filled with gratitude for my sobriety and to have such a great friend in my life. I was thankful I got to share one of my walking adventures with someone else – not just Shea, but his parents, too. And, I was relieved it was over. Weeks, months, and years down the road we could reminisce about “That one time we walked 70 miles in the freezing cold and didn’t loose any appendages.”

I have no doubt this will be the first of many long walking adventures with Shea. And similar to my other long walks, the Frostbite 24 was a reminder of what anyone can accomplish if they keep putting one foot in front of the other and simply refuse to quit.

But this adventure was so much more than that. Life is short. Spend it with people who inspire you, who listen to you, and who have your back when things get hard. Be grateful for that person, whether it’s a family member, friend, or partner. Be grateful for that relationship and that connection, and never let it go.

The Frostbite 24 by the numbers!

70.1 miles walked.

Over 140,000 steps taken, each.

$1,438 dollars raised for the Larimer County Humane Society.

One flat tire for PJ.

Too many cups of coffee to count. ZERO scoops of peanut butter (can you believe that?!?!).

I’d like to extend a heartfelt thank you to everyone who supported our walk, including those who donated to the LCHS. We also received a multitude of texts and phone calls during the walk, which helped immensely. I love you all.

With gratitude,

Ben and Shea

Walk on!

From Santee, the finish line for my third walk across America was 30 miles away. Technically it was only 20, but I wanted my walk to total 2,800 miles, so I added a few extra steps during the last couple days.

My amazing host in Santee, Melanie, joined me for a 14 mile walk on the second to last day. We left her house with PJ and walked a circuitous route through Santee and into Mission Trails Regional Park. In the park, we followed a quiet, paved road surrounded by beautiful mountains before hitting Mission Gorge Road. Melanie is an incredibly active woman, so she had no trouble walking the miles with PJ and I. The day flew by!

I was down to my last 16 miles on March 12th! The final day of my walk had finally arrived! Melanie dropped PJ and I back off near the entrance to Mission Trails Regional Park and we started walking. I wanted to be alone for the first few hours of the day to reflect on this incredible journey.

Unfortunately, the first two hours didn’t leave much time for peace, quiet, or reflection. I lost the sidewalk shortly into the stroll and was left walking a narrow bike lane for a few miles. There were several difficult highway interchanges to navigate and a lot of traffic. After six miles, I was still battling. California continued to keep me on my toes.

Eight miles into the day, I finally hit a continuous sidewalk, stopped getting turned around (no matter how many miles I walk, I still have difficulties navigating in big cities), and was able to relax.

Melanie met back up with PJ and I five miles from the ocean. We walked quietly through Mission Bay Park, along a wide sidewalk bordering a marina, then hit the busy Mission Beach Entertainment District, complete with bars, restaurants, and an old wooden roller coaster.

I caught my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean’s white caps, effortlessly tumbling towards the coastline as we neared the boardwalk along the beach.

“What a shame, PJ. That’s the ocean – I was just hitting my stride,” I joked.

The boardwalk was filled with happy beachgoers, busking musicians, skateboarders, cyclists, and joggers.

We walked a slow two miles north to Crystal Pier, enjoying the ocean breeze and a picture perfect San Diego day.

After reaching the pier, I prepared PJ for one final sandy push to the Pacific. I struggled to get him through several mounds of sand right off the boardwalk. After a few hefty pushes, we reached packed sand.

I stopped, took in the breathtaking ocean views for a moment, and removed my shoes and socks. I gave Melanie a big smile and took a few slow steps forward. Then, inexplicably, I ran towards the ocean. PJ and I hit the chilly mid-March waters of the Pacific at a full sprint and officially completed our 122 day journey. Both of us connected every step along the way.

I was euphoric and excited as I let the chilly waters of the Pacific soothe my aching feet. I was relieved to be upright and healthy. But I also felt a familiar bittersweet feeling in my stomach – I knew I would miss the walk. Memories from all three of my journeys came flooding back as PJ and I stood in the knee deep ocean water.

I spent 99.99 percent of the last 122 days by myself, and yet, I was never alone. God was never absent, and I always felt the support from family and friends scattered throughout the country. Perfect strangers showed me incredible amounts of love and generosity. People opened up their hearts and souls to me, and I did the same. From the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU to everyone who helped me on this journey. This wasn’t a solo adventure. I needed every one of you.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’ve walked across America three times. I’m not the same person that started walk one in Virginia Beach on April 4th, 2015.

I found sobriety by the time I began walk two. I’m not the same person that left Portland, Maine on April 12th, 2018.

And I’m not the same person who left Jacksonville, Florida on November 11th, 2020. One of the consistent parallels between my walks, “real life,” and my sobriety is what can happen when a person strives for incremental progress every day. On my walks, I took millions of steps to accomplish my goals. In sobriety, I need to do the same thing. Big goals and big changes aren’t accomplished overnight. They take time, patience, and a lot of steps along the way.

As far as my journey in sobriety and continual personal growth goes, I know I will never reach the finish line. It truly is a lifelong, one day at a time process. I’m going to make mistakes (I’ve made some big ones along the way) and I’ll never be perfect. But with God’s grace, I can move on from my mistakes, become a better person, and grow during the process.

There is a sense of closure and completion regarding my “career” as a long-distance walker. I knew after my second walk I would eventually tackle the Southern States. It was just a question of when.

And now, days removed from completing this goal, another resounding truth continues to echo in my head. “Wherever I go, there I am.” I was running from myself on my first walk. I refused to face the fact that I am an alcoholic. I believed a cross-country walk would fix me. It didn’t, and my problems joined me for every step.

I can’t outrun (or outwalk) my thoughts or problems. There is no magical fix. For better or worse, I am stuck with the head that’s planted on top of my shoulders. And it is my sole responsibility to make sure that I take care of myself. In order to do that, I need to take action everyday. I need to be an active participant in my recovery. I need to seek out God in order to stay spiritually, mentally, and emotionally healthy. If I do that, everything else will fall into place. No matter what circumstances I face, whether I’m employed or unemployed, rich or poor, single or taken, I have a shot at happiness if I hold myself accountable and keep my side of the street clean.

Wherever I go, there I am. Once I FINALLY wrapped my head around the fact that I can grow into a better person, a better brother, a better son, a better friend, and a better partner, regardless of where I am or what I’m doing, it opened up my eyes to the endless possibilities life has to offer. No matter what challenges life throws my way, if I do my part, I know God’s got me, and good things will follow.

Favorite Three Pictures

Trip Stats

Days – 122

Miles – 2,800

Jars of Peanut Butter Consumed – 109

Roadside Change Count – $6.82. Just about enough for three spicy chicken sandwiches and two cheeseburgers at McDonald’s!

Cumulative Miles Per Shower – 73.68. I took 38 showers between Jacksonville and San Diego!

What’s next? That’s a great question. And I’m happy to report I don’t have an answer. A year ago, that would have driven me crazy. Not knowing the answer to where my life would take me, or not having a plan in place for the next step was unthinkable. Now, it excites me. My future is an unwritten book, and I can’t wait to begin writing the next chapter. The writing starts NOW.

With love and gratitude,

Ben

P.S. Walk on!

From Blythe, CA, I found myself less than 250 miles from the Pacific Ocean in San Diego. When I left my Motel 6 room, I reminded myself “250 miles is 250 miles. That’s still a long way to walk.” There have been plenty of challenges during the last nine days and 220 miles of walking!

The first day out of Blythe, however, was smooth sailing. I had sunny skies, flat terrain, no wind, and large shoulders all day. I followed Highway 78 through agricultural areas and ended the day camping at Palo Verde County Park. The park was on the banks of a man-made lake adjacent to the Colorado River. I camped right on the shoreline. After I sat down for dinner at dusk, a colony of bats appeared to hunt over the water.

My walk the following day was much more challenging. I lost the shoulder on Highway 78 after a few miles in the morning and was left dodging cars for the next 20 miles. To complicate matters, the highway was extremely hilly, so I was constantly moving from one side of the road to the other, always walking where traffic could see me. That meant “sprinting” up hills when I was walking with traffic, and jumping off the road when a car approached. Additionally, I fought a stiff 25 mph head wind for most of the day. Everything was working against PJ and I. I even had to take down his flag. The wind was blowing at the perfect angle and it kept bonking me on the head, which was even more maddening than the wind itself.

Despite the challenges of the day, it was a beautiful stretch. A light rain shower moved through during the afternoon and I saw the first rainbow of my walk. Ocotillo cacti were blooming. And I found a lovely BLM camping spot after walking a difficult 25 miles. Blessings abound, even on the toughest of days.

Highway 78 had mercy on me the following day. After three more hilly miles, I hit a wide, nicely paved shoulder and cruised downhill into Glamis (The “Sand Toy Capitol of the World”). The Imperial Dunes National Recreation Area is right on the other side of rown.

The Imperial Dunes were as advertised. Mountains upon mountains of sand stretching far into the distance. Dune buggies (I finally understand why they call them that), ATV’s, and jeeps were busy making tracks in the sand. Watching the amphibious buggies provided some entertainment as I walked through the area.

I ended the day camping at a unique spot. I noticed on Google Maps there was a small hot spring about two miles south of the highway on some BLM Land. I happily took the detour to Five Palms Hot Springs. I set up camp about a quarter-mile from the springs and hiked up to the cluster of palm trees through the thick sand. The palm trees jut up from the desert floor, shading the rare pool of warm water. To be fair, the water temperature was more tepid than hot, but it felt great on my achy feet nonetheless. I walked back towards camp well after dark and got turned around. Fortunately, after 20 minutes, my flashlight landed on one of PJ’s reflectors. Home sweet home.

I began the 15 mile walk into Brawley the following morning. I passed a canal after less than a mile on Highway 78 and was back in California Ag Country. There is seemingly a line in the sand for where the natural desert ends and the farmland begins in California. Look at Google satellite images of Southern California and you’ll see what I mean. I was in irrigated farmland for the duration of the day.

I ran several errands once I hit Brawley. I stopped off to do laundry and stocked up on food at Walmart. After parking near the store entrance, I pulled out a half-dozen goat heads from my right tire. It went completely flat within a few seconds. If you’ve never changed a flat tire outside of a Walmart, I highly recommend it. The looks are worth the struggle. I left Brawley a few hours before sunset and walked out of town. I camped on the banks of the New River for the night.

I made my way back out of farming country the next day and returned to the dusty desert. After 17 miles of walking, I hit the Evan Hewes Highway, which runs parallel to Interstate 8. This road, hands downs, was the bumpiest paved road I have EVER walked. The pot holes were so big, I was afraid PJ was going to fall into one and never be heard from again! Thankfully the traffic flow was low, so I played dodge the potholes.

Once I reached Plaster City, I had a few visitors! My cousin Jacob, who moved to LA from Miami right when I began my walk, made the drive down to visit with his girlfriend, Cassie. Jacob walked with me for 6.5 miles on the bumpy road. He was my first “guest walker” of the trip. He even pushed PJ for a few miles. We had some great conversations during our jaunt. Cassie met us at a closed bridge just before dark. As we were chatting, a woman got out of the passenger side of a black SUV.

“I’ve seen you walking like four times today! Earlier you were alone. Where did you pick him up?” She asked jokingly as she pointed to Jacob. We laughed and I explained what I was doing.

She went on to explain that the bridge we were hanging out on has been closed for four years. Locals have made their own road in the sand that bypasses the bridge. She went on the recommend we stop by the Lazy Lizard Lounge down the road for a drink. Based off her slurred speech, it sounded like she just hopped off one of their barstools.

Based off the fact that the bridge has been closed for four years, and given the decrepit nature of the highway, it seems California is happy to let this section of highway continue to degrade!

The wind really picked up during the afternoon while I was walking with Jacob, so I decided to camp in a relatively sheltered spot between the closed bridge and a small cluster of trees.

Mountains awaited the following morning. Before I dealt with them though, I had another pressing matter to attend to – my feet. Thanks to a few tough days of bumpy roads and running up hills, I acquired three fresh blisters. On my walk up to that point, I only had two blisters. Both of those were during my first week of the walk. I covered the blisters with moleskin after waking up, packed up camp, and started walking. Due to the location of the blisters (one was on the side my big toe, the other two were underneath my toes) the moleskin wouldn’t stay put.

I walked a painful three miles into Ocotillo and sought a different solution. I tried two pairs of socks on each foot and walked a mile. The pain was still there. I dug out my first aid kit and removed a roll of gauze. I carefully wrapped each foot and put on two pairs of socks, along with my old pair of Saucony running shoes. I hadn’t worn them in three weeks. I took a few test steps and amazingly, my feet felt great!

With my foot problem solved, I turned my attention to the next 10 miles of my walk. With no frontage roads available, I was forced the walk Interstate 8 (which is illegal) after leaving Ocotillo. Like my illegal interstate walk in Arizona a few weeks back, I employed the “it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission strategy.”

It was a long, steady, uphill climb out of Ocotillo. Interstate 8 boasted a massive shoulder and relatively light traffic. Although I was passed by four Border Patrol Agents and two State Troopers, none of them stopped to harass PJ and I. We gained 2,600 feet of elevation during the climb while walking over rocky, desert mountains covered with vehicle-sized boulders.

PJ and I triumphantly reached the exit for Old U.S. 80 just east of Jacumba Hot Springs. I let out an exhausted sigh of relief.

My friend Melanie, who I’m staying with in San Diego, made the drive down to my BLM Campground to visit after I walked another few miles. Melanie and I met hiking Pikes Peak last summer and have stayed in touch since then. She invited me to stay with her once I reached her neck of the woods. She brought a delicious batch of chili for dinner and some other snacks. We visited for a while before I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. Thank you for making the end of a tough day so special, Melanie! I’d be seeing her again a few days.

The three mile walk from my BLM Campground the next morning into Jacumba Hot Springs was all downhill. From there, the highway took a slight left turn and came within 100 yards of the border wall.

Old U.S. 80 quickly became one of my favorite roads in the country. It boasts a wide (and typically well-paved) shoulder, little traffic, and stupendous views. I walked past more granite covered hills during the first half of the day, then enjoyed panoramic views of distant mountains and forests throughout the afternoon. There were several taxing climbs, followed by long downhill stretches. I reached Cleveland National Forest shortly before dark and was so excited to see tall trees that I hugged a few.

I camped at Boulder Oaks Campground (about eight miles south of Pine Valley) for the night. While I was looking for a site I noticed one with a beautiful oak that was calling my name. I hugged that tree, too.

I was also delighted to find a small Mississippi cat figurine (I named her Sippy) who will serve as my mascot (or should I say mascat?) for the remaining 70ish miles of my journey.

I started my walk from Boulder Oaks Campground at 6:30 the next morning, ready for a day of uphill and downhill battles. I had one more day of serious mountains to walk! The first climb started immediately after leaving my campground. I gained about 1,000 feet of elevation in eight miles before reaching Laguna Summit, which is just over 4,000 feet. I had to play my go to “get fired up song” (which, of course, is “Snap Yo Fingers” by Lil’ John) within thirty minutes of starting the day.

Although Mt. Laguna was shrouded in clouds, the surrounding hills and valleys were picturesque under puffy clouds and baby blue skies.

From there, Old U.S. 80 dropped 600 feet and passed through Pine Valley. I picked up a massive pine cone off the roadside as a souvenir. In case people didn’t think I was crazy enough pushing a jogging stroller down the side of the highway, now I’m pushing a jogging stroller down the side of the highway with a massive pine cone resting on top of PJ!

Since I couldn’t walk the interstate west of Pine Valley, I followed a few secondary roads. Although it added a few miles (and there were more hills), I continued to enjoy incredible views. My third walk across the country has been the flattest of the three by far, but the last few days in California have given me all I can handle mountain wise!

After walking through Viejo Indian Reservation, I met back up with Old U.S. 80 and wandered through quaint Alpine before calling it a day.

My friend Melanie picked me up 12 miles from her house. My days of camping were officially complete! I’ll be staying with her until my dad arrives in San Diego next week.

Melanie dropped PJ and I back off on the roadside the next morning. I easily could have walked with just my backpack, but PJ connected every step on walk two, and I don’t want walk three to be any different.

I donned my wet weather attire given rain was a near certainty. There is no doubt I have been blessed with great weather on this walk. I’ve been able to avoid three major storms by staying in hotels. I walked through some snow in the Guadalupe Mountains in Texas, had two passing showers in the deserts of California and New Mexico, and three days of storms in Florida (one of which was a tropical strom on day two of my journey). That means I’ve had to wear my rain gear a total of seven times (including today) in 120 days of walking.

Midway through the walk, the skies opened up and I walked through a torrential downpour for two miles. After the rain ended, the sun came back out and I quickly dried off.

I reached Melanie’s house after a 12 mile stroll. I have another 27 miles of walking to reach the Pacific!

I’m doing my best to “be here, not there,” during the last few days of my journey. I intend to soak up every moment, every ray of sunshine, and every rain drop along the way.

Favorite Three Pictures

Trip Stats

Days – 120

Miles – 2,773.5

Jars of Peanut Butter – 105

Roadside Change Count – $6.75, plus a 10 Peso piece.

Miles Per Shower in California – 63.88

Be prepared for a long, heartfelt post regarding the last two days of my walk to the Pacific very soon. Walk on!

-Ben

The nine day, 231 mile jaunt from Tempe, Arizona to Blythe, California featured a variety of challenges and new experiences! I wasn’t going to coast through the final 200 miles of Arizona.

I left my friend Shane’s house in Tempe on February 20th. California was still a ways away, but I could hear her calling.

I spent the first few hours of the day wandering through Arizona State University’s surprisingly lush campus and lively downtown Tempe. It was another sunny, picture perfect winter day.

From Tempe, I headed west towards downtown Phoenix and the Arizona Capitol building, which was the third Capitol I’ve visited my walk (the other two were in Tallahassee and Baton Rouge). As I approached the building, I noticed a massive crowd was gathered. There happened to be a Pro-2nd Amendment rally in progress. Attendees wore assault rifles and hand guns like they were fashion accessories. The whole scene made me uncomfortable, primarily because I’ve haven’t been around many guns. I snapped a few quick photos of the Capitol as rally attendees curiously watched PJ and I.

After leaving the crowd, I walked to Grand Avenue, which eventually turned into Highway 60. It was a straight shot northwest out of downtown Phoenix.

Although it was the most direct route out of the center of the metro area, it was far from the most scenic. The six lane, divided road was heavily traveled and passed through industrial areas for the next 15 miles. There were interchanges I needed to detour around every few miles, which complicated matters. I got turned around on sidewalks that hit dead ends several times.

I ended up walking 30 miles and ended my day well after dark. I camped off a bike path near a dry wash in Sun City. After another 15 miles in the morning, I finally cleared Phoenix’s urban sprawl. My walk through the Phoenix metro area totaled 62 miles!

Even after leaving the city, there was still a massive amount of traffic on Highway 60 heading towards Wickenburg. The road was so loud I could barely hear the music from my speaker when it was on full blast! I wore ear plugs for the majority of the day to drown out the noise. I reached the post office Morristown at 5 PM.

A few minutes later, I had some company! Jan, a good friend of mine from Fort Bridger, Wyoming, made the drive to Arizona to spend some time camping and hiking with Allison, who is a full time Arizona RV’er. The three of us had been planning a little “camping trip within a camping trip” for weeks. Due to a few snowstorms in Wyoming, Jan’s arrival was delayed.

I broke PJ down and loaded him up into the trunk of Jan’s Honda Accord.

We drove through Wickenburg and camped at a primitive campground at the base of beautiful Vulture Peak. Saguaro and chollo cacti lined the desert floor. I spent two nights and took a rest day with Jan and Allison. They are both avid hikers and simplistic travelers. We had a blast sharing stories and exploring the quaint Western town of Wickenburg. Thank you for the amazing visit and company, ladies!

From the Morristown Post Office, I was five challenging days away from the California/Arizona border! I covered the 10 miles into Wickenburg and picked up a few last minute groceries at a Safeway in town. After Wickenburg, I wouldn’t walk through a town with more than 1,000 people for 170 miles.

It was refreshing to get back into the unpopulated desert after leaving Wickenburg. Traffic levels quickly declined and I was able to loose myself in the peaceful landscape. I camped at the crest of a hill 10 miles west of Wickenburg after a 24 mile walk from the post office in Morristown.

In the morning, I made my way towards Aguila. I found myself walking through a long, flat expanse of desert for the entire day. There were mountains on both sides of the highway, but 60 cut right through the valley and was flat as a pancake.

After passing through Aguila, a Honda Civic pulled over on the shoulder. The driver must have been double masking it because I couldn’t understand a word he said. I parked PJ and scampered across the highway.

“You want a Whopper?” That was the easiest question I’ve been asked on my walk to answer. The man handed over the burger and said he would give me a ride if he didn’t have his dog with him. “I’m good walking,” I told him. He drove off and I scarfed down the burger on the shoulder. I didn’t catch the guy’s name, so he will forever be known as the “Arizona Whopper Man.”

I ended the day camping on some BLM land at the foot of beautiful Harquahala Mountain. There is a ton of BLM land in Western Arizona, making it pretty easy to find camping spots where I can rest easy and avoid stealth camping!

I finished off the final 20 miles of my walk down U.S. 60 the next day. Once I hit Hope, I turned right on Highway 72 and began what I call the “Parker Detour.” Highway 60 runs into I-10 near Quartzsite. Since pedestrians can’t legally walk ANY interstate in Arizona (and there are no frontage roads along the freeway for the last 30 miles into California) my only alternative was to head northwest towards Parker, cross the Colorado River south of town, then head south to Blythe. The detour would add about 50 miles of walking.

I walked six miles on Highway 72 before finding my rocky BLM accommodations for the night. Based off my Google satellite research, I knew 72 lacked a shoulder. I didn’t expect so much traffic though. It was a tricky six mile stretch, and I had another 30 miles to walk the following day. After I set up camp, I put the difficult stretch I’d face in the morning out of mind and brought my attention back to the present.

From my campground, I could faintly make out the lights from Hope, flickering on the valley floor.

“A glimmer of Hope,” I said out loud. Those four words hit me unexpectedly.

I flashed back to my early days in recovery in the spring of 2017. I had made some terrible mistakes while I was an active alcoholic. I was lost. I didn’t recognize the person I saw in the mirror. I felt hopeless. But after I committed to a sober lifestyle and started working a program, I found that faint glimmer of hope I desperately needed. I could barely see it through the fog that engulfed my life. But I could feel it. I let that light guide me and with a lot of work and some time, it got brighter…and brighter…and brighter.

A little hope can go a long way. Reach for it. Chase it. And no matter what, don’t let it go. I rested easy in the rocky desert. I was grateful I held on to and chased that initial glimmer of hope. And I have so much gratitude for where my journey in sobriety has taken me.

I started walking at 7 the next morning. My fears about Highway 72 were confirmed. I held out hope the high traffic level the previous night was an anomoly. But a steady stream of cars greeted me. I dealt with the traffic for a few miles until I noticed a small dirt road 50 yards off the highway. It ran underneath some power lines next to a barbed wire fence. I wasn’t sure how long I could walk the path for, or how walkable it would actually be given PJ’s tendency to struggle with rocks and sand.

Overall, the path was pretty walkable. The sand got thick in a few spots and the path would dip into a wash a few times every mile. When that would happen, I’d get a running start and simply plow through the sand. It was a workout, but was a much better option than fighting a steady stream of traffic without a shoulder.

We followed the dirt path for 18 miles into Blouse.

From Blouse, I discovered a primitive road which ran parallel to Highway 72 through the rocky desert. There wasn’t a single car on the quiet road. There wasn’t much sand to contend with on La Pos Road, but there were several rocky sections that took some serious effort to get through. We hit the highway again just before dark. Although I had walked a modest 28 miles, I was exhausted from expending so much extra energy navigating through sand and rocks throughout the day. I camped on a sandy bluff overlooking a little wash.

I began my final 25 miles in Arizona the following morning. I knocked out the last five miles on Highway 72 before the sun came up, then turned right on Highway 95 and headed closer to Parker. Traffic on 95 was even heavier. The shoulder was just as bad. I walked another much sandier and frustrating power line road for a few miles, then returned to the bumpy, gravel shoulder. At one point I pushed PJ straight through the desert, avoiding small shrubs and mesquite trees, because I was fed up with the highway and the power line road. Fortunately, I only had the Arizona portion of 95 to deal with for eight miles.

Four miles south of Parker, I turned left on AZ 10 and walked 12 miles through a quiet, agricultural valley on the Colorado River Indian Reservation. Healthy hay and alfalfa fields, palm trees, an occasional canal, and distant mountains gave me plenty to look at. The peaceful stretch was a polar opposite to the way the day started! Every passing car gave me a friendly smile and a big wave.

I hit Agnes Wilson Road and crossed the Colorado River around 3 PM, entering the final state of my walk – California! There wasn’t a welcome sign at the state line, so I improvised.

Three miles later, I hit the California side of U.S. 95. To my pleasant surprise, there was less traffic. Still no shoulder, but less traffic! I walked another few miles and called it a day. I camped on a large bluff overlooking the Colorado River.

PJ and I left our bluff at 4 AM in the morning. I knew the first 20 miles of the walk were going to be tricky without a shoulder. I guessed traffic levels would be low at that ridiculous hour on a Sunday morning. I guessed right! It was a quiet first 10 miles under a bright, nearly full moon. Only 17 cars passed between 4 and 7 AM.

The wind picked up after sunrise, but to my pleasant surprise, the 30 mph gusts were at my back! Aided by the wind (and a long overdue paved shoulder for the last 12 miles), it was an easy breezy walk into Blythe.

Highway 95 provided some great views of the Colorado River, sandstone cliffs, dry washes, and passed by the “Blythe Intaglios” along the way. The Intaglios are massive, ancient drawings in the desert. One of the drawings was of a horse-like animal. The second resembled an alien. They were mysterious, thought provoking, and very difficult to photograph!

The last few miles into Blythe went well, other than a visit from the California State Patrol. A driver called them saying they “feared for my safety.” When the patrolmen pulled up, I was walking with traffic to avoid a blind curve.

“You know you should be walking facing traffic, right?” One of the officers told me. I explained (maybe a little too indignantly in retrospect) that I walk where the cars can see me. The officer nodded in understanding.

“You got a baby in there?” The other patrolman asked. We visited for a few minutes and they were kind and cordial after our initial introduction.

I triumphantly reached Blythe at 3 PM, capping off a challenging and interesting nine day walk. I checked into a Motel 6 and showered right away, washing off hundreds of miles of dust, sand, and dirt from my grimy body! It was heavenly.

Favorite Three Pictures

Trip Stats

Days – 111

Miles – 2,555

Jars of Peanut Butter – 97

Roadside Change Count – $6.13

Miles Per Shower in Arizona – 102

From Blythe, I am a mere 250 miles from San Diego, which is hard to believe! Despite being on the final leg of my journey, I will approach every remaining day as if it will be the toughest of my walk. And you better believe I’m going to enjoy every remaining minute! Walk on!

-Ben

“Magical” is the best way to describe my nine day, 269 mile walk from Douglas, Arizona to Tempe. The scenery was incredible, the plants were mesmerizing, and solitude in the Sonoran Desert gave me plenty of time for reflection and introspection.

I left Douglas on February 10th after a much needed day off. PJ and I continued west on Highway 80 towards Bisbee. After walking primarily quiet highways from El Paso to Douglas, being back on a road with a steady stream of traffic was a shock to the system. It was a loud first few hours, but PJ and I quickly adapted and settled in. Thank you, ear plugs!

As I pushed PJ up a series of hills and neared Bisbee, we walked past a handful of mines before turning left on Highway 92. I was already tired when we hit the highway junction. I couldn’t figure out why (especially since I was coming off a rest day), until I saw the “Welcome to Bisbee Sign,” which indicated the city sits at an elevation of 5,300 feet. We steadily climbed 1,300 feet since leaving Douglas.

“That’s a relief PJ – I thought we were out of shape for a second there,” I joked.

From Bisbee, it was a downhill walk for the rest of the day into a massive valley south of Sierra Vista. After enjoying a beautiful sunset, I was still trying to find a suitable camping spot for the night. I knew there was some BLM land down the road, but it was still six miles away. I pushed PJ off the highway, turned off my lights, and had a drink of water while I decided what to do.

After five minutes, a vehicle pulled right up to us on the dirt road between the highway and the barbed wire fence. Border patrol found us! The agent stepped out of his cruiser and shined his flashlight on me.

“We come out and check on people who are walking through. This is a very high-traffic area for illegals,” he told me. “Sometimes people will call us when they see a person on the road or in the bushes, or sometimes our sensors detect them.” He never told me how they knew I was there. I’d like to think someone just called me in because the thought of sensors detecting me creeped me out. The agent, Frank, was quite friendly and we talked for a while.

He recommended that I camp on the BLM land. The area is regularly patrolled (often by agents on horseback) and I wouldn’t be bothered by the BP again. PJ and I walked for another two hours and arrived at our campground around 8:30.

In the morning, I began the walk towards Sierra Vista. Highway 92 climbed a long, steady hill, then took a right turn at the foot of Miller Peak. The impressive mountain still had a little snow on top from a recent storm.

After walking around Sierra Vista on a bike path that ran parallel to the highway, I continued to Whetstone, where I found a rare Arizona RV Park that allows tent camping. I had a pleasant encounter six miles from town.

A man named JC was pulled over next to the entrance to the airport. When I told him what I was doing, he didn’t seem surprised. As it turned out, JC and his wife walked nearly half of the American Discovery Trail (2,000 miles or so) in 2019. JC’s knee gave out in Des Moines and they were forced to stop.

JC and I have more in common than that – he is also in recovery and has been sober for 15 years. His eyes lit up when I told him I’m a recovering alcoholic. We had an impromptu meeting on the roadside. Once I arrived in Whetstone, he stopped by Dollar General and delivered a half-gallon of milk and a few candy bars. We prayed before he said goodbye. Thank you for sharing your story, faith, and sobriety with me, JC!

After reaching the Mountain View Campground, I met Sheila (the manager) and went inside to pay for my site. A group of campers were in the community room getting ready for Thursday night bingo. Sheila introduced me and I gave them an overview of my walk after apologizing for interrupting their bingo game. They sent me on my way with a slice of cake and some Sunny D!

Mountain View Campground was one of the best places I have camped on my journey (and not just because of the cake). The bathrooms were SPOTLESS, the people were friendly, and Sheila even turned on the motion detector lights near my tent to “give me a fighting chance just in case the neighborhood coyotes decided to invade my camp!”

After coffee with the other campers in the morning, I continued north on Highway 90 towards I-10. When I left Douglas, I planned on heading west from Whetstone and walking a dirt road through the mountains to Green Valley. After doing a little more research, I discovered the road is a popular 4WD route. Considering PJ only has three wheels, and my boy has a tough enough time with curbs and stairs, 20 miles on a rocky, sandy, potentially washed out road sounded miserable (and potentially impassable).

Although pedestrians are prohibited on all interstates in Arizona, it was the only “reasonable” alternative. If a cop stopped us, we would plead ignorance. It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?

I put the impending 11 mile interstate walk out of mind for the first 20 miles of the day and enjoyed the incredible scenery on Highway 90. Panoramic views of Apache Peak and numerous mountain ranges to the east were visible from the highway, which ran along a high ridge.

Before hopping on the interstate, I “gassed up” at McDonald’s, determined to make it through the 11 mile stretch as quickly as possible. It was a loud, unnerving walk. Endless lines of semi-trucks and passenger vehicles continually pounded PJ and I with bursts of wind and dirty looks (though only five cars actually honked at us). During our illegal walking escapade, five border patrol agents, one state trooper, and one county sheriff drove by, but none of them stopped to harass us. PJ and I victoriously left the interstate at the exit for Marsh Station Road, just before dark. We successfully cleared another big hurdle!

Tucson was in our sights the following day, without having to walk on the interstate. After a lovely walk on Marsh Station Road through the Sonoran Desert hills, we followed a frontage road for a few miles, then headed north and reached the city limits of Tucson. It was a primarily suburban stroll through the foothills of the Santa Clarita Mountains. Just before dark, we walked the Harrison Greenway, which cut straight through a swath of untouched Sonoran Desert. I pushed PJ about 100 yards off the trail, carefully avoiding the neighborhood cacti and mesquite trees, and cowboy camped under a clear desert sky.

In the morning, I was eager to watch the sunrise over the desert. I was all packed by 6:30 and walked a mile down the trail. The sun rose over the Santa Clarita Mountains shortly after 7, bringing the sleepy desert to life.

Shortly after the sunrise, I struck up a conversation with Sue and Leslie, who were out for their walk with Annabelle. The friendly little pooch greeted me enthusiastically and never barked at PJ!

Sue and Leslie are Tucson teachers and daily walkers. They recently finished walking the entire “Tucson Loop,” which is a 58 mile-long series of bike and walking paths that circle the city. They are also a part of a walking/hiking group called the “Sole Sisters” and regularly head into the mountains for more strenuous hikes. The duo can certainly attest to the physical and mental benefits of walking.

As we said goodbye, I told them “Keep on walking!” Their reply was perfect…”We never stopped!” Neither will I! Thank you for the company this morning, ladies, and thank you for the gift card, Leslie!

I spent the majority of day leisurely walking the “Tucson Loop.” I waved and smiled at every cyclist and walker that crossed my path. While much of the country was gripped by the polar vortex, snow, and ice, I was happily basking in the Arizona sun and enjoying temperatures in the 60’s (not to brag or anything). The path followed a number of dry river beds and meandered past clusters of saguaro cacti. After a brief stop at REI to pick up (hopefully) one last tire for PJ, I headed north and walked for a few hours after dark, ending the day near Oro Valley and camping on a small hill overlooking a wash.

After two days of walking, PJ and I were clear of Tucson and ready to start the four day jaunt to the Phoenix area. We stocked up on food and water at a Walmart and walked north on Highway 77 towards Catalina – flanked by Mt. Lemmon to the east. Maybe it was the howling coyotes the previous night, a questionable lunch selection at Walmart, or my sore left pinky toe. Whatever the reason, the miles didn’t come easily on the walk out of Oro Valley. I managed to walk 20 miles and reached Highway 79, but cut the day short after coming across a nice spot to camp across the highway from a power station. I nicknamed my campground “Power Line Junction” because power lines dissapeared into the desert in every conceivable direction.

I woke up to overcast skies the following morning. Mt. Lemmon received a fresh coating of snow the previous night. Thankfully, I stayed dry, aside from a few raindrops. The clouds dissipated as I made my way further north on Highway 79 just in time to enjoy beautiful views of the Sonoran Desert. Saguaro, prickly pear, ocotillo, barrel, and chain fruit cholla cacti were visible for the next 40 miles. I was in heaven!

I ended the day camping in a rare desert “forest.” I was well hidden from the road and was able to set up camp before dark and enjoy another beautiful Arizona sunset.

From mile marker 123 off Highway 79, I was a two day, 66 mile walk from my friend Shane’s house in Tempe. I enjoyed another few beautiful miles in the Sonoran Desert before reaching Highway 87. Farms and agricultural land replaced the desert scenery. The farms felt oddly out of place given the harsh, hot, dry Arizona climate, but were beautiful all the same. Fields of alfalfa added some green to the otherwise brown landscape.

My last night outside of the Phoenix area was spent stealth camping on Gila River Indian Reservation. I struck out early the following morning and reached the Phoenix suburb of Chandler after 15 miles of walking.

The final 20 miles to Shane’s house in Tempe went by pretty quickly. I walked a mixture of sidewalks, bike paths, and a few dirt shoulders through Chandler and into Tempe. A variety of desert plants signaled spring had arrived.

I reached Shane’s house on February 18th shortly before 9 PM. It was a full walking stretch from Douglas to Tempe. I elected to take a day off and rest up for the second half of my walk through Arizona. What a grand stroll it has been so far!

In honor of being on the road for 100 days, I put together a short list of things I have learned (or need to be reminded of) during my walk so far…I hope my thoughts give you some food for thought!

1. No matter how many miles I walk, I need to keep learning. I’ll never have this mastered. Even though I’ve walked over 9,000 miles throughout the U.S. and Canada, every day poses new challenges, which I look at as opportunities to learn and grow. What a great metaphor for life! Keep learning and adapting, no matter what.

2. My ability to “let things go” is directly related to how often I listen to “Let it Go” from the Frozen Soundtrack. My four year old niece will be so proud! Once a day does the trick.

3. I can create my own happiness. A gratitude list, prayer, a roadside dance, or looking for ways to help out another person or place (even if it’s something small like picking up trash at a rest area) immediately improves my mood and perspective.

4. The average saguaro cactus lives between 150 and 175 years! Some are over 200 years old!

5. Wherever I go, there I am! Whether I’m walking across America or back home in CO, I am solely responsible for my spiritual, mental, emotional, and physical health. Keeping up with these isn’t a weekly or monthly task. It is a daily endeavor. I need to take steps everyday to ensure I’m taking care of myself, no matter what is going on around me.

Favorite Four Pictures

Walk Recap

Days – 101

Miles – 2,324

Jars of Peanut Butter Consumed – 86

Roadside Change Count – $5.75

Miles Per Shower in Arizona – 63.8

From Tempe, I will be following Highway 60 to Hope, Arizona, then heading up to Parker. I’ll hit the California state line after crossing the Colorado River. My next update, Lord willing, will be from California….Until next time, walk on!

-Ben

I left El Paso on February 1st fully prepared to begin the “Borderwalk” segment of my journey.

A few days before reaching El Paso, I planned on walking north to Las Cruces and following Interstate 10 west. “Weird things happen close to the border,” people warned me. The alternative (and my original plan) was to walk New Mexico 9, which runs right along the border for 100 miles or so. In a few spots, it come within a mile of the border wall.

Walking closer to I-10 seemed like the prudent thing to do. It was further from the border and wasn’t as desolate. It offered twice the towns and services along the way. But as I planned out the I-10 walk, I kept getting a strange feeling about it in my gut. Something wasn’t right. I’ve learned on my walks that I always have to trust my gut, even if it’s telling me to select the more illogical option.

“Highway 9 it is, PJ,” I hollered as we pulled out of the La Quinta parking lot.

Before hitting Highway 9 though, I had nearly 30 miles of El Paso and surrounding suburbs to walk through.

The stroll through El Paso was thoroughly enjoyable. After days and days of desert scenery, the colorful cityscape of El Paso was a welcome change. PJ and I took a detour from the hotel and walked under the bridge that crosses into Mexico. We could see the “Bienvenido a Mexico” sign from the sidewalk. PJ was adamant about going to Juarez but I had to put my foot down and say no. Plus, he doesn’t even have a passport!

After trekking through downtown and enjoying the big buildings, San Jacinto Square, and a variety of murals, I pushed PJ up a large hill that led to Sunset Heights Historic District. Beautiful homes dating back to the 1920’s were decorated with a Southwestern and Hispanic flair. The sprawling metropolis of Juarez was visible across the sandy Rio Grande.

Our tour of El Paso continued with a walk through UTEP’s campus and past the Sun Bowl, which is the university’s football field. The stadium is literally carved out of a mountain!

After a few more errands (bike shop, post office, and Walmart) we were through Central El Paso and walked suburbs until dark. I have walked a lot of big cities during my three treks across the country. El Paso was, hands down, the most walkable. Other than a 50 foot stretch across some railroad tracks, PJ and I had smooth sidewalks, bike paths, wheelchair ramps, and walking men at every corner for the entirety of our 20 mile walk out of the city. Wow!

We reached Santa Teresa, New Mexico after dark and found a decent spot off the highway in the desert to camp for the night. I knew I needed to get comfortable sleeping among the mesquite trees, yucca, and cacti…There is going to be plenty of that moving forward!

After a few miles the following morning, we hit NM 9, which we would follow for the next 147 miles, nearly to the Arizona State Line.

The first day on Highway 9 was strange. After a few miles, the road turned south and I caught my first glimpse of the border wall, which stretched far off into the distance. I can only describe seeing the wall for the first time as surreal.

Given my proximity to the border, it’s no surprise every other vehicle that roared by was a white and green Border Patrol SUV. They weren’t just on the highway. I spotted a few agents driving through the desert seemingly randomly. A few were parked on top of bluffs watching the valley floor. Occasionally one would drive by very slowly on the narrow dirt road between the highway and the barbed wire fence that lined the desert. Although I felt like I was being watched, it gave me a slight sense of comfort knowing the agents were around. At press time, I have yet to get stopped by the “BP,” as I call them.

I spent my first night off Highway 9 camping on some BLM Land within a mile of the wall. I enjoyed a beautiful view of the valley from the top of a small hill where I set up camp. Other than seeing the lights from a few BP’s driving down the dirt road right next to the wall, I was all alone.

I had a rare deadline when I woke up at 5 AM on February 3rd. The previous day, a man named Conrad (who is from Louisville, CO) stopped and visited with me midway through my walk. He gave me two Mountain Dews and wished me luck on my journey. A few hours later, I received a text from Lawrence, the owner of the Bordlerland Cafe in Columbus. Lawrence told me Conrad pre-purchased a meal for me at the cafe! Lawrence also offered me a spot to camp on the property once I arrived. My goal for the day was to make it there before the restaurant closed at 7 PM.

With beautiful weather and light traffic, PJ and I cruised to Columbus, walking 33 miles in just under 11 hours. We hit the Borderland Cafe with time to spare and enjoyed a delicious, leisurely dinner on the cafe patio (indoor dining in New Mexico is still banned due to COVID). I ate a massive Poncho Burger, complete with Hatch green chilis, enchilada fries, and a salad. Lawrence visited with me for a bit as I enjoyed the tasty meal and beautiful evening. I set up camp next to the restaurant’s patio. Thank you for the gesture of kindness, Conrad, and for your hospitality, Lawrence!

I got a “late” start the following morning and didn’t start walking until 8. The wind picked up by 10 and I was left pushing PJ into 20-30 mph winds. It was a challenging, often maddening day. The highway had no shoulder to speak of. I would normally drown out the noise from the wind by wearing ear plugs, but since I didn’t have a shoulder and was literally taking up a third of the eastbound lane, I needed to listen for cars approaching from behind me. If someone happened to be passing another car at my back, I was right in their way. Every time I heard a car coming up from behind me, I would quickly glance over my shoulder to ensure it wasn’t one vehicle passing another.

Despite the noise from the wind and the physical challenges of the day, PJ and I managed to cover a difficult 30 miles before dark. A mile before we reached our camping spot in the desert, a photographer named Felix stopped and visited with us.

“You look like a man on a mission,” Felix said as he pulled up along side me. “Can I take your picture?” Felix snapped a few semi-candid shots of PJ and I as we pushed through the stiff New Mexcio wind. He pulled over 100 yards later and we visited for a few minutes. It had been a quiet few days socially so I was grateful for the chat. Thank you for the company, and the photos, Felix!

The next morning, I covered the final 14 miles to Hachita by 10 AM. I stopped off at the Hachita Food Mart for a morning break. The Continental Divide Trail (which runs along the divide from Mexico to Canada) is a popular mountain biking and hiking route in the spring and fall. The store in Hachita is a little oasis in the desert for thru-hikers and bikers.

I sat inside and visited with Jeff, the owner, for a few hours while I drank a cup of coffee and a half gallon of milk…then proceeded to eat a sandwich, honey bun, and a bag of goldfish.

Jeff is certainly a kindred spirit. He is an avid cyclist and outdoor enthusiast and has biked the entirety of the Continental Divide Trail from Mexico to Canada, which is well over 3,000 miles. It was nice to be on the asking end of questions for a change, like “How long did it take you,” and “How many miles a day did you ride?” Additionally, he is a hell of a nice guy and was a great host for the two hours I spent at his store. Great meeting you Jeff, and thank you for your hospitality!

I left the store at noon and continued my walk west. After a modest eight mile climb to the Contintental Divide Trailhead, it was all downhill for the rest of the day. I could make out the faint outline of the Chiricahua Mountains (which I would walk next to the following day) in the distance. I ended my walk cowboy camping in a massive dirt lot off the highway. I enjoyed another crystal clear night, starry night in the New Mexico desert. The Milky Way kept me company as I drifted off to sleep.

I began my last full day in New Mexico on February 6th. The Land of Enchantment provided some memorable scenery during my 35 mile walk to Rodeo. The Chiricahua Mountains to my west were visible all day. I also formally crossed the Contintental Divide five miles east of Animas. I hit another walking milestone as well. As soon as PJ and I hit the end of NM 9 and turned left on Highway 80 (which we would follow south to Douglas) we reached 2,000 miles on our current walk. A “rainbow sunset” in the Chiricahua Valley capped off another scenic day in New Mexico.

After camping at a little RV Park in Rodeo, I began packing up and preparing for the 50 mile walk to Douglas. However, the morning didn’t go as planned. After breaking down my tent, I noticed my water jug was leaking. A few inches of water had settled on the “floor” of my stroller.

No big deal. There was a gas station and grocery store in town. I decided to buy a few gallon jugs of water for the upcoming 50 mile stretch, which didn’t have any services. I called the store the previous day and the woman working said they were open from 8-2. When I arrived, a big sign on the front door said “Closed Sundays.” To be fair, I loose track of what day it is all the time.

On to Plan B. I walked back to the RV Park and put several layers of duct tape on the bottom of the jug over the leak. Then, I filled it with a gallon of water and set it down. I waited 30 seconds, picked up the jug, and discovered a pool of water underneath it. After thousands of miles of walking, I actually found something duct tape can’t fix! Then I had a brilliant idea – transport the jug upside down! When I flipped it over with the pour spout facing down it didn’t leak, and water wasn’t coming into contact with the compromised plastic on the bottom.

With my water problem solved, I happily got back on the road and continued to the Arizona State Line!

After a few ceremonial pictures next to the “Welcome to Arizona Sign,” I cruised towards Douglas.

The walk through Southern New Mexico on Highway 9 was desolate. I didn’t think it was possible, but the walk south to Douglas on Highway 80 was even more desolate! I didn’t have any cell service from Rodeo until I was about 10 miles from Douglas. That meant a whole walking day with no internet, social media, calls, or texts. Just a man and his beloved buggy in the Arizona desert. Truth be told, it was one of my favorite days of the walk. Disconnecting from the world and simply walking with zero distractions was humbling, cathartic, and centering. The incredible scenery helped, too.

I found another great camping spot near mile marker 390, about 22 miles from Douglas, and called it a night shortly before sunset. I was asleep by 6:30.

I woke up at 3:30 AM and, to my surprise, was wide awake. I decided to get an early jump on the day. I was pushing PJ through the dark by 4. The final 22 miles into Douglas flew by. We hit town by 11 and checked into a Motel 6 room shortly after that. PJ and I had walked 230 miles in eight days since we left El Paso. It was a physically and mentally challenging stretch. I earned every bite of the delicious burritos I gorged on from the gas station next door!

Favorite Three Pictures

Walk Recap

Days – 91

Miles – 2,056

Peanut Butter Jars Consumed – 74

Roadside Change Found – $5.51

Miles Per Shower in New Mexico – 96.66. It took 11 days to walk 290 miles across New Mexico, and I squeezed in three showers!

From Douglas, AZ, I will have my work cut out for me! After walking to Sierra Vista on Hwy 92, I’ll head north on Hwy 90, west on Hwy 82, north on Hwy 83, then follow a dirt road through Madera Recreation Area towards the tiny town of Continental. From there, I’ll head due north to Tucson and northwest to Phoenix on Highway 79. The desert will continue to provide beautiful scenery and plenty of challenges as I enter my final month of walking. I can’t wait to see what awaits on the road ahead.

Walk on!

-Ben