Day 4 - A Radio Signal

 

DAY 4 – January 4, 2026

Eyes in the Brush, Voices from the Past

Red Rock Canyon Campground gave me the best sleep yet—sheltered from the wind, flat ground, water on tap. Morning light filtered soft through the cliffs as I paid the core toll on a sun-warmed rock: five push-ups (arms steadier), eleven sit-ups (abs answering with less complaint), twenty seconds of plank while ravens wheeled overhead like black-cloaked scouts.

Then I shouldered the pack and started the climb out of the canyon. The road tilted upward, shoulders narrowed, and the real ascent to Mountain Springs summit began. Every step gained altitude, every breath pulled thinner air.

As I walked, eyes watched from the brush. Dozens of them—low, yellow, unblinking—tracking my progress from the creosote and Joshua trees. Coyotes, maybe the pack that lost two brothers on Day 1. Daylight kept them at bay; they prefer the dark, when a lone pilgrim is blind and slow. The hammer rode heavy on my hip, a silent reminder that respect goes both ways.

My watch crackled to life mid-stride, picking up a ghost signal that phased in and out with the terrain. An old radio station—some automated loop beaming nostalgia into the void, trying to remind whatever survivors are left that the world was once good and might be again.

The broadcast was an ancient football game: Ravens versus Steelers. Fitting name for this raven-haunted landscape where one wrong step could mean a sudden, feathered end.

“Flowers beats them deep as the Ravens take the lead…”

The voice faded behind a ridge, then surged back clear.

In the distance, a thin gray ribbon of smoke curled into the sky—the last breath of a dying campfire. I angled toward it, eyes scanning for movement, hammer hand itching.

“Gainwell for the score and the Steelers take the lead back…”

Closer now. No voices, no figures. Just embers glowing faintly in a ring of stones. Off to the side, a pile of sticks and dry leaves. I poked through it with my boot—metal glinted. A small pistol, rusted but functional, with a half-box of ammo nestled beneath.

Gift from the road? Trap? No one stepped out to claim it. I tucked the pistol and rounds into the pack anyway—out here you don’t question fortune, you just arm yourself against it.

Using a long stick I scattered the coals and smothered the last of the fire. No sense advertising my position to whatever left this behind.

“And the kick is WIDE RIGHT—STEELERS WIN!” the announcer screamed as the signal peaked one last time before dissolving into static.

Sounded like a hell of a game.

I ripped open a tuna pouch, emptied it straight into my mouth—salt and protein sliding down like victory—then kept walking. Steelers win. New weapon acquired.

Supplies still solid, but the thought crossed my mind: if the jerky runs low, there are plenty of yellow eyes out there that might dress out tasty with the right seasoning.

The summit loomed ahead. Beyond it, the long descent into deeper desert.

Tonight I’ll find another pull-off, pistol loaded beside the hammer, eyes on the dark.

Day 4 Numbers – Paid in Altitude and Armament

• Steps: 15,117
• Miles Logged: 7.14
• Core Tribute (Gentle Rebuild):
  • Push-ups: 5
  • Sit-ups: 11
  • Plank: 20 seconds

Mile Apocalypse Total: 28.33 / 2026

The eyes are still watching. The signal is gone. But the road keeps talking.

🏜️🔫🔨