Day 3: The Lords Day

 

DAY 3 – January 3, 2026

Sunday in the Canyon – God’s Flashlight and Makeshift Mass

The sun rose like God’s own spotlight, blasting straight into my eyes—no trees, no overhang, no mercy. I’d bivied out in the open, trusting the sleeping bag to keep the desert night from stealing my heat. It did its job, but dawn still punished me for the oversight.

Everything ached when I stirred. Legs, back, shoulders—and especially the core that had been neglected for far too long. I rolled out onto the gravel, faced the rising blaze, and paid the morning tithe: push-ups until my arms shook like faulty hydraulics, sit-ups that lit my abdomen on fire, a plank held just long enough for the burn to feel like penance.

I should have trained for this months ago. Packed smarter, pushed harder, prepared the body as thoroughly as the pack. But preparation was shortsighted—jerky, tuna, hammer, water, go. Now the wasteland is the trainer, and it charges interest in pain.

Still, I refuse to be vulture bait. Every trembling rep is a promise: I will get stronger, or the desert will take what’s left.

Today is Sunday. The Lord’s day, they used to call it. I don’t know if I believe in a God who’d let the world turn into this dust-choked exile, but out here under an endless sky there’s no harm in asking. Maybe a reward waits. Maybe it’s all wind and delusion. Either way, no steeple in sight, no pews, no preacher—just red rock cathedrals and silence.

So I made my own church.

Found a flat boulder overlooking the canyon, bowed my head, and spoke into the void.

“This is my blood—drink of it.” I tilted the bottle back, warm water sliding down like communion wine, refreshing, alive.

“This is my body—eat of it.” I tore into a strip of jerky, chewed slow, gave thanks for the salt and the smoke and the strength it lends.

Simple ritual. No choir, no collection plate. Just a man, a hammer at his hip, and a question tossed skyward: Guide me, or don’t. I’ll keep walking either way.

Ceremony done, I shouldered the pack and pointed my boots toward Red Rock Canyon Campground—a real spot with pit toilets, water spigots, maybe even a picnic table to call home for a night. Better shelter than open gravel, better rest for whatever the path demands next.

Once I’m there I’ll spread the maps, plot the true northern vector, and decide how far the hammer and I go before dark.

These boots were made for walking. And that’s just what they’ll do.