Helper, Utah

Heading north to Wyoming, back into the land of snow with a deep and complete longing for hardwood forests, less sand, as well as creeks to occasionally wash out a shirt and pair of pants. Yesterday I arrived in Helper (north of Price, Utah) with new shoes, new twin tires for the 150 lb. loaded cart , fresh food, decent shave, and five gallons of water --all ready to climb Indian Canyon high into the northern land above ( approx 8,ooo feet and up). Told to stop by the mission for a warm meal at the railroad and Helper museum, I do and a warm meal turns into a room for three days of rest, a couple of nights off the trail, another reporter stops by to laugh out stories with, new friends point at the mission wall map of America while we talk of roads to come with still the same original dance flicking in my eyes. In Helper's hay day the mission was a bordello and still holds that energy somewhere under its paint, as does the town. Early in the last century 27 languages were spoken here, and coal was the black coveted gold of the area that held promise and drew the people in from all over the globe. Walking the main street of the town (a current pop. of approx. 2,000 though most unseen) I peer behind smoked windows of stores and taverns that have saddled up and moved along down the trail. Even with many closed shops there are a few doors that open with smiles under tooled tin and copper ceilings, and the town has a facade to write home about, recently awarded one of the top old west towns in America. Nearly every building has an historical marker. In fact Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid lived in Helper for a term collecting information, before making a clean get away with $8,ooo in in a combination of gold dust and cash. The money was never recovered. Helper is steeped in history.
My large can of bear spray comes out of hiding from being useless deep within my pack, now ready for battle. I frown at all my food, food that I have adored through many a long hungry night as I stoked my inner fire through many dark hours to try to keep my weight up. I am sad with the fresh idea that we will no longer be tent mates. Now my food pack will dangle as a pinata' twenty trees away from the tent door(as soon as there are trees), and I will listen to every sound anew always wondering if morning will shine dawn on a mound of shredded packaging. There are to many miles to walk before the slack is taken out of my ribs to sleep easy while my precious food swing from a branch perfumed with promise.