Day 2: Silent Backtracking

 

DAY 2 – January 2, 2026

The Quiet After the Storm

The hammer stayed in its loop today. No glowing eyes in the brush. No sudden snarls from the creosote shadows. After yesterday’s baptism in blood and adrenaline, the desert granted me the rarest gift it ever gives: silence.

New pants—thicker fabric, reinforced seams—held firm against the wind. The adrenaline crash hit hard once the Walmart cathedral faded behind me. Body heavy, legs leaden, mind foggy from the fight and the detour. Progress slowed to a deliberate trudge as I backtracked toward the sacred line on NV-160.

A couple strips of smoky jerky and a tuna pouch torn open roadside were enough. Salt and protein seeped in, the fog lifted, and the rhythm returned—one foot, then the other, the pack settling into its familiar weight.

Setbacks are minor. A few miles borrowed from the true path, a day of forward momentum traded for survival. The odometer doesn’t care about straight lines; it only counts the cost paid in sweat and steps.

Red Rock’s cliffs rose higher on the left, silent red giants watching an ant crawl across their feet. The city’s last lights winked out behind me. Ahead, the highway unspooled into open desert like a promise—or a threat.

I walk now in search of something I can’t yet name. Peace and happiness? Peace and quiet? Maybe just the sound of my own breath without the noise of the old life. Whatever it is, it isn’t back there in the suburbs. It’s out here, somewhere past the next bend, past the next gas station, past the ghosts and the neon temptations.

Danger still waits: wildlife that remembers yesterday’s lesson, weather that can turn in an instant, highway shoulders narrow as a razor’s edge. But for today the path was quiet, and quiet is its own kind of mercy.

These words go out into the void once called the internet—logs uploaded, progress marked. If anyone is still listening out there, reach out. Advice welcome. Supply drops even more so.

Until the next pump for fuel and a phone recharge, I’ll take the quiet while it lasts.

Mile Apocalypse Total: 13.09 / 2026

The road is listening now. Tomorrow it may speak again. Until then, I walk. 💀🏜️🔨