As I fly on the small Beechcraft King Air 350 from Albuquerque to Silver City, NM on Monday, April 11th, I’m at a loss for what to expect. My job is to film and photograph Derick Lugo, AKA Mr. Fabulous, his trail name. Because I have never spent time with Derick in-person before, I am asking myself, “What will this guy be like?”

As I fly over the flat, dusty brown landscape that we will ultimately walk across, I know whatever is before me...is unknown.  

The Continental Divide Trail (CDT) is one of three of the great “Long Trails” of the United States. The others are the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) and the Appalachian Trail (AT). The CDT extends from the US-Mexico border in New Mexico, to the US-Canada border in Montana. It is distinguished by its sheer remoteness, many varying alternate routes, and for (sometimes) demanding a more specific skillset: advanced route-finding skills and depending on the time of year, the use of ice axe and knowledge of snow-travel techniques are necessary. 

We’re meeting at the truck to be dropped off four hours south of Silver City, at the Crazy Cook Monument – The CDT’s Southern Terminus. There is a small, dilapidated fence separating lush green farmland from the harsh, seemingly unending desert. The Farm is Mexico. There is a hole in the fence that would require minimal effort to step over. So we did, both illegally and sans passport. It felt like a rite of passage, like a Buddhist blessing before entering the high Himalaya, albeit, irreverent at best. There is a hiker waiting at the monument, “Soccer Mom.” He stood alone at the monument staring up the trail. When his shuttle left, he remained like a statue there for several minutes. I wondered and guessed at what was going through his head. We made eye contact and he nodded.

We were off and I was quickly overtaken by the landscape. That first stretch of trail felt like a portal into Coelho’s The Alchemist. Many thru-hikers find the Chihuahuan Desert portion of the CDT to be their least favorite. It is flat, brown, dusty, hot, dry, and monotonous. However, I find it wild, and new, and mystical. As the silence sets in, I follow Mr. Fabulous, as he pursues his “personal legend” (for those who have read The Alchemist) I feel like I’m faithfully pursuing my own. 

I walk with a brimmed hat, a sun-hoody, and a buff covering every inch of my face that my sunglasses and hat do not. We saw more people on the first day than any other. We teamed-up many. Many teamed-up with us.  

Of the first ten days from the border, you are extremely exposed. The wind, as anyone who has spent any extended time in it knows, can become oppressive. There is virtually zero shade. The few trees are noted and mentioned individually. Their respite cannot be overstated. Under one such tree, after our longest-exposed stretch yet, we take what would be our longest daybreak yet. Here, there is a water cache maintained by the infamous “Radar”. Radar is the unofficial mayor of this portion of the CDT. For the first 150 miles or so, from the border to the Gila River, there are almost zero natural water sources. Radar has established these caches every 30 miles or so, distance most thru-hikes starting out here cover in just about 2 days. There are others here when we arrive. One of them is a handsome man, with sun-worn skin, kind, intelligent eyes, and a philosophic aura. His name is Faustus – that being his real name. He hasn’t yet received a trail name. We begin chatting. I ask to take his photograph. He obliges with a kind nod and a slow blink of his eyes. From Texas and of Latin descent, he has two siblings with very, “normal” American names: like Lauren and John, but he is Faustus and throws up his hands. I ask if he has read, the 16th century play, “The Tragical History of Dr. Faust, ” in connection to his name. Neither of us had. “Why don’t you go by that – Dr. Faust”? He pauses and nods. “That’s what it will be.” 

Mr. Fabulous is lying on his back under the tree and his circle sunglasses. He would later tell me that he sort of peered under them in a slightly spiteful surprise that I just “given” a trail name. It is sort of an unspoken rule that - depending on who you ask - only thru-hikers give trail names, and only thru-hikers receive them. However, a few days later, I would receive one after taking a photograph of a man called“ThighClops.” We met Thighclops in a field totally covered in cow patties. He was walking funny. His thighs were bleeding openly by chafing. He had actually received this name for the same trouble on the PCT. We were a very long way from Hachita, the first “town” from the border (Hachita is actually an unincorporated township, or “census-designated place”; 2010 US Census reporting 49 permanent residents. If you type “Hachita” into Microsoft Word, it comes up as a spelling error). Thighclops made his thigh-sores visible to me as he obliged my making of a photograph of him and his suffering. He made a wonderful smile. He was miserable. He was happy to be there. The backpacker's paradox.

As we parted the patty-mine field and Thighclops, Mr. Fabulous asked me who my favorite photographer was.  

Sebastião Salgado.  

Salgado traveled to the darkest parts of the world, photographing humanitarian crises in order to expose economic and crimes against humanity. He would later cease to photograph humans after becoming severely and clinically depressed by what he has witnessed, and mostly dedicate the rest of his career, to making photographs that would serve the saving of the planet in wake of the current climate crisis. Mr. Fabulous gave me my trail name, “Salgado.” 

We arrive at our first camp. One of about 180 for Mr. Fabulous.  

He is vomiting.  

Miserable.  

Dehydrated.  

Heat exhaustion, the gamut.  

I wonder to myself how in the world he will do this again and again and again for 6 months. How will he walk from Mexico to Canada? He fumbles and fusses with his tent. This will be the first night he sleeps in it. It’s 20 minutes before it’s up. He's on his back, then fast-walking with head down to the brush to heave again. Do I film him? Certainly. But what of dignity? I have to spend ten days out here with this guy and frankly, I don’t want to piss him off 16 hours into this. I hesitate and ponder the situation. He sits up in his tent and calls for me and tells me to film him.  

OK. Cool.  

We are in his tent together. He communicates on camera his misery, honestly. I gain respect for him and become immediately confident he will go all the way to the Northern border. 

The title of Fab’s first book is The Unlikely Thru Hiker. There are so many variables in his story that make him “unlikely”. He is from New York City. He loves New York City. He had never hiked a day in his life before the AT. Not one step. He had never slept a single night in a tent. He is “boujie.” He likes lotions and creams and craft beer. His racial identity is only one. He’s less interested in waving the banner for Black or Latino or Black-Latino hikers than he is in waving the banner for unlikely hikers. He is living a story - his story. “I did the AT for myself. This one is for more than that.” 

Over the coming days, Mr. Fabulous and I would spend countless hours together. Sometimes in silence. After many days of the oppressive heat, we began hiking most of our miles at night. This uncovered a completely different experience, smells, sounds, and spooks. I very much appreciated the emotional intelligence or maybe it was just how Mr. Fabulous wanted it too, to know when it is talking time, and know when it is alone time. You need both in life and on trail, the need for both is amplified. When we talk, we discuss love, heartbreak, illness, friendship, justice, adventure, ambitions, and dreams. We tell the long version. We have time. We discuss literature. I find Fab to be a great listener, at least on the trail. I find he is a man really, truly, deeply about story. It is part of him. It’s like as he steps, he lives and as he lives he writes and as he writes, he lives. A perfect feedback loop. His own history especially, he has crafted into a narrative that suits and supports his mission here, on-trail. It reminds me that we all do this. It is our mechanism for making sense out of our lives. For finding meaning in them. It’s how we find purpose in suffering. It’s how we keep things alive—out of the abyss.