“Your moniker should be Chama Man”, I said, “like Java Man or Peking Man”.  I meant that in the context of old archeological terms for species of Homo.  “I would be Denver Man”, I added.  I wanted to say “Teddy Man”, but didn’t.  We were on the Continental Divide Trail south of Cumbres Pass just over the state line in Colorado about 20 miles from Chama, New Mexico.  Chama Man first seemed confused by my outburst, considering he only knew me for five minutes.  I explained that long-distance hikers on the CD Trail give fellow hikers celebrity status with characteristic names.  He caught on immediately.  I was joking of course, a common practice of mine when meeting amiable strangers.  We were only day hikers out for an afternoon of nature and exercise, not long distance trekkers perambulating our way from Mexico to Canada.

I immediately developed a respectful impression of Chama Man.  As he approached, I stood 10 feet off the trail because of Covid concerns.  He gave me a lame salute like old military men often do when meeting others.  He walked slowly, with an unsteady gait.  His hearing was clearly impaired, so I spoke louder.  His real name was Al, he was 68 years old and wore a graying beard.  He was short, wiry, and determined.  He looked older than his years.  His scruffy appearance, rumpled jeans, sweat-stained hat, and faded lumber jack shirt added to his demeanor.  His hands shook, a possible sign of tremors from Parkinson’s.  His left hand was limp, and he was slow and deliberate in his responses to my questioning.

He had been in the Air Force and later the Department of Defense at Fort Hood, Texas.  He jokingly referred to the “Air Farce”.  I countered that I had friends from the 60s who were “Flaps” at Ellsworth Air Force Base, adding that I was a “Rock Jock” from the School of Mines in Rapid City.  At some point he said, “Another day above ground is a good day”.  He was jokingly addressing fatality.  We talked about Chama and the pandemic, how the local economy was devastated, then segued into our favorite journalists: Cronkite, Severeid, Brinkley, Murrow, others—then to politics.  Chama Man was very concerned about the forthcoming (2016) election.  He emphasized that he had friends on the left and right, suggesting to me that he looked objectively at issues.  “There will be significant discord, no matter who wins”.  I agreed with him and said so.  I then explained that the trail ahead continued to climb higher, maybe a few hundred feet in the next half mile before descending into a valley at considerable loss of elevation.  He said he’d stop for lunch at the high point and then turn around.  We agreed that long-distance trails had a lot of elevation loss.

Clouds were starting to build above us.  Afternoon storms were imminent.  I pointed upward and suggested caution.  He concurred.  We parted, and I continued my trek downhill to the trailhead, roughly a 2.5-mile walk.  The storm clouds intensified as I descended.  In 30 minutes, the first cloud-to-cloud lightning flashed.  The storm cell was immediately above me and intensifying.  This was going to be a slow mover, I thought, but in what direction?   I just couldn’t tell.  By the time I reached my vehicle, a few large drops began to fall.  Ten minutes later, as I was eating lunch in my van, pea-sized hail started pinging on the roof.  The temperature plummeted.  Local chipmunks and juncos rushed to safety.  I started the van as hail was replaced by a hard, cold rain.  My thermometer said 46, a major drop from 70. Then I thought of Chama Man.  I remembered he had only a small backpack.  Did he have a rain poncho, a warm coat?  He was at least 700 feet above me, probably close to 11,000 feet, and three miles away.

I started driving, passing his truck camper in a nearby field.  It was cold, overcast, and still raining.  I decided to drive 15 miles east to a campground at a lower elevation and warmer temperatures.  I thought of Chama Man.  Should I hike back and check on him?  Would I want someone to check on me?  I then recalled something he said during our conversation.  He made it clear that he detested the thought of spending his last years or months in an assisted-living or skilled nursing facility with a bunch of fellow geezers.  I felt better about not checking on him.  I knew he would be okay.