Glorious. We slept in a bit, as far as we do, and then roused for the morning. A few camp spots over was nicer enough it was worth moving, so I did trash detail, cleaning up as much as I could, and then we moved in. Strung a line to air fluff the quilt, set up the tent and chairs. And then it was pie time.
Pie Town Pies was adorable, with fabulous outdoor seating of bright woven blankets on haybales, and an eclectically decorated inside, where we chose to sit, and watch. 4 pie bakers were hard at work, as great music played: Neil Diamond, Billy Joel. We ordered coffee and a breakfast burrito each (excellent), and one pie of each flavor available, lemon chess and bearly blueberry. A local rancher named Sheridan told us over his coffee about a girl he knew who hiked the hydrographic Continental Divide in 1983. I couldn’t imagine – she must have been made of pure grit.
After collecting our boxes from the Toaster House (where other hikers couldn’t believe we weren’t staying), back at the campsite we went through the resupply rituals. Bucket baths from water warmed in the sun, stirring a big bucket of our hiking clothes soaking in soapy water. I worked on uploading pictures, as my brother’s van’s internet was far superior to any internet in the entire state New Mexico. We sorted food and gear, hunted the trash from all the pockets and bags. We unwrapped our other beloved tent, a bright blue Zpacks duplex, sent by my parents from our back up gear stash, along with piles of extra treats.
Crusoe fired up 2 MSR stoves and somehow whipped up a wok-fried Thai meal of seared veggies and tofu over rice noodles, which we capped off with the pies, which exceeded their overwhelmingly high expectations. Then, after all of that, he presented his pièce de résistance: a battery powered orbital sander and the absorbed knowledge of YouTube how-to videos. “I already tested sanding on my own feet just to make sure it would be okay,” he said, “and it works great.” I was a bit skeptical of all the ways this could go wrong, but my brother is a fairly methodical person, and he talked me into giving it a try. The sander worked surprisingly slowly, and surprisingly well, even if it was a bit disgusting how it sprayed an exhaust plume of ground, dead callous. Maybe Crusoe’s trail name should be The Farrier?
Filled with the warmth and gratitude for being taken care of by someone who loves you nonjudgmentally, I rolled into bed.