It Could Happen Here - CZM Book Club: An excerpt from "An RVer's Guide to the American West" by Carrot Quinn

Episode Date: March 3, 2024

Margaret reads Robert a post-apocalyptic story of a woman and her dog surviving in the mountains.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

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That's iHeart.com slash podcast awards. Welcome to Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get real and dive straight into todo lo actual y viral. We're talking musica, los premios, el chisme, and all things trending in my cultura. I'm bringing you all the latest happening in our entertainment world and some fun and impactful interviews with your favorite Latin artists, comedians, actors, and influencers. Each week, we get deep and raw life stories, combos on the issues that matter to us, and it's all packed

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or wherever you get your podcasts. Closer Media Club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, club, Cool Zone Media Book Club Book Club Book Club Book Club Book Club Book Club

It's the Cool Zone Media Book Club. Your weekly book club. That's right. You don't get the reading ahead of time. You get the reading. That's right. Which, from my point of view, is actually a better way to do a book club because I don't usually do the reading when I'm in a book club.

And I go to the book club meeting and pretend like I did the reading because I want to relive high school. Yeah. Margaret, I treat everything in life like a high-stakes negotiation because I have been raised entirely by hustle influencers on YouTube. So when I walk into a book club, I pull out a revolver and I drop that shit on the table and I say, what do you got to tell me about Moby Dick? That's good. That's good. And then they tell, they say from hell's heart, they stab at thee.

That's right. Yeah. That's how I do all of my reading. Just the only line. Yeah. I travel 364 days a year just to find people who are reading the books that I need to read for Behind the Bastards. And then I engineer the information out of them. It's the fastest way I can think of to do it beyond actually reading.

Which is why when Sophie brought me on to Cool Zone Media, she shielded my address from you. That's right. That's right. wielded my address from you. That's right. That's right. And despite my best efforts, which since I can't read, are limited more or less to yelling at other people on the internet to find Margaret's house. Yeah. Has not worked yet. Your white whale, as you sometimes refer to me. Yes. Yes. Ever since I went to that Moby Dick book club, that one really left an impact. Yeah. Everything is your white whale, depending on the week. But, you know. Yeah.

Yeah. Mm-hmm. This week, I'm going to be reading a piece from an upcoming book written by Carrot Quinn. Carrick? Carrot. Like the. Carrot. Carrot.

Okay. So, like. Yeah. Yeah. Carrot literally spelled Carrot Quinn. Yeah. Gotcha. Okay. Old, you know, queer,ot Quinn. Yeah. Gotcha.

Old, you know, queer, has a queer name. Cool. I just wanted to make sure people could find them by Googling. Yeah, yeah. No, Carrot's like the food and then Quinn, Q-U-I-N-N. She's the author of this book. The one that I've read by her is called Through Hiking Will Break Your Heart. And it is a through hiking memoir.

And it's very good and will make you want to quit your job and go walk for a very long way. But she's also working on a post-apocalypse novel. And the thing I really like about this is that she knows traveling in the wilderness more than anyone i know one of the other things she does is she leads hikes right like if you want to go on a week-long you know women only through hike you can you can go with quinn um carrot you can go with Carrot Carrot Quinn So I'm really excited about This upcoming This upcoming Post-apocalypse I've always wanted to do

More through hiking You know I've done bits And little bits Of that over the years You know I've done some Hitchhiking and shit In other countries mostly But I've never done like the

Drop your life For a year and spend it walking and would would very much like to do that but sophie will probably get frustrated with me where i had to choose to do that now so i hope i hope it's good but not quite that good that's that's actually similar to how i feel about through hiking is i'm like i i get why i can't do it right now. And I'm sort of annoyed. Yeah. I would like to nuke my life to do that right now, actually. Yeah. And that's why at the end of this, we're fundraising for Robert and Margaret's through hike adventure.

My dream has always been the thing I hope I get to do someday is I want to take a, you know, fly into probably fly into Dublin, hike from Dublin to on the other side of Ireland, Galway, hike to Galway and then go hike from Galway straight up north, you know, across the island and eventually up to Belfast, like do the whole length and width of Ireland on foot has always been like the thing that I've most wanted to do. That would be cool. I want to do the three big American ones, but I also want to do the La Calla. I think it is the way the the saints pilgrimage that goes from southern France over to western Spain.

Oh, shit. That would rule. Yeah. But anyway, maybe we'll get to do it during the apocalypse like in this story god willing yeah yeah the uh the book has a working title of an rver's guide to the american west and so you should look for that but also you should just look for through hiking will break your heart and then also a memoir called the sunset route and one of the other thing i like about carrot is that carrots coming actually a lot of through hikers come from quit their office job and go hiking and carrot comes

from hopping freight trains and hitchhiking to going and being like the through hiker oh yeah so the sun dries my clothes as i ride my bike. My stomach is full of breakfast gruel. The dog is fed too, and jostling softly in the pannier as we make our way across the road. The cold and fear of the night slough off me like old paint. My joints loosen in the gentle day. I try not to think of how lost I am and how little food I have. I try and lean into this moment where, on the micro level, nothing is wrong. My strong legs turning the pedals of my bike, pulling the road beneath me.

The road crests a rise, still wooded though, still no view, and I can see that it drops down and then curves out of sight below. Okay, maybe we'll descend now. Maybe we'll get off this goddamn mountain. I coast downhill, picking up speed, letting the wind ruffle my hair, letting my tired legs rest. How good it feels to just be carried like this. The downed tree is hidden behind a curve in the road. I don't see it soon enough. I hit the brakes, but it's a huge tree, broken branches everywhere, and I'm going too fast. I can't even make sense of what happens next, except there's a terrible grinding noise. I'm going over the

handlebars. I'm bouncing, sharp pain in my body, and then everything is still. My first thought is the dog. I pull myself up. There's some blood on the fabric of my dress. My bike is tangled in twisted wood. The handlebars bent backwards. The pannier with the dog in it is facing up, but it didn't get smashed under the bike, thank God. And I open it up and the dog jumps out, looks around wide-eyed, startled, shakes himself vigorously. He's okay. I'm weeping with relief. How stupid I was being. So, so stupid. Why would I go so fast like that on this janky ass road? I almost killed my best, my only friend. I'm sitting on the ground

now, openly sobbing, my chest heaving, a tender pain starting to make itself known there, a stabbing burning each time I take a breath. I can't stop crying, though. The dog stands next to me, curious, watching me cry. I'm blubbering incoherently at him. He is everything in the world that I have, and he's so small, and it's my responsibility to keep him alive out here in this big, dangerous land. Snot is running down my face, and I lift the blood-stained skirt of my dress to wipe it away. That's when I see the cut on my leg. A sharp-ended branch must have dragged its way across my thigh. The cut is rough-looking and messy, but not too deep, and the blood is already starting to clot. When I stand, the leg feels

tender, and a little fresh blood oozes out. I rub my hands over the rest of my body. I feel bruised and maybe a broken rib, but otherwise okay. Lucky. I got lucky. My bike is mangled though, one of the rims bent, the wheel rubbing against the frame. And walking is painful. And in addition, now that I'm around the bend, I can see that the road does not continue to descend. It climbs, back up onto the ridge. The ridge, though, the clear open ridge, I can see it ahead of me, cast in soft yellow light. The road goes up there, and there should be a view, the view I wanted. There is that, at least. Better get there before the stiffness settles in, before my rib becomes all the way painful, and pushing a bike is too much. I make my way gingerly

up the hill, the dog trotting along beside me, the slowness of my bent bike matching the slow, painful movements of my body. The road tops out in a rocky clearing and I can see the valley spread out in the light below. The road ends here. There's a small house, a sort of one-room shack, up high in the air on stilts, with a long turning staircase leaning up to it. I stand for a time watching the shack, watching for movement, but there is none. No sounds either, just the stillness of this peaceful evening. I lean the bike against one of the metal supports, pull off my panniers, and begin to mount the stairs. One, two, three, four flights. I grab the guardrail to support myself, wince at the pain in my leg and chest.

With each turn of the staircase, the mountain recedes below me, and I can see farther. I can see the ridges leading away from this one. I can see more of the valley far below. The dog is right behind me, heaving himself up each metal step. After six flights, the staircase ends, and there's just plywood above my head, nowhere else to go. I press the plywood up. It sticks, and then it comes free, revealing a square opening in the floor of the shack. I pop my head inside. I see a row of wooden benches, a metal table, some shelves, a small cot, a wood stove. Each of the four walls is made up of huge windows looking out in every direction. I lift the dog up and set him inside and then climb in after him.

It's nicer inside the shack than out. The walls block the wind and the huge windows gather the warmth of the sun. Shelter. My God, shelter. Something inside of me releases. Some tense little ball unfurls. Just in time to enjoy these sweet, sweet interruptions in the form of advertisements. Hola mi gente, it's Honey German and I'm bringing you Gracias, Come Again, the podcast where we dive deep

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artists, and culture shifters, this is the podcast for you. We're talking real conversations with our Latin stars, from actors and artists to musicians and creators, sharing their stories, struggles, and successes. You know it's going to be filled with chisme laughs and all the vibes that you love. Each week, we'll explore everything from music and pop culture to deeper topics like identity, community, and breaking down barriers in all sorts of industries. Don't miss out on the fun, el té caliente, and life stories. Join me for Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get into todo lo actual y viral.

Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose. This season, I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel-winning economists to leading journalists in the field, and I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong, though. I love technology. I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough.

So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. On Thanksgiving Day 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean, he looked so fresh. And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere.

Elian Gonzalez. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. everywhere. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with. His father in Cuba. Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation.

Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. And we're back. I drop my panniers on the floor. I should take inventory of this shack, see what is useful here, but I'm overcome with an unnameable exhaustion.

I carefully lower myself onto the cot, curl up into a ball, and shut my eyes. When I wake, it's afternoon and the light is heavy. I slept more deeply than I have since leaving Maud, and I fight the urge to close my eyes and fall back asleep, to sleep for a hundred years. The dog is sitting right in front of my face, staring at me. You're right, dog, I say. I should get up and put things in order. I roll onto my back and wince in pain. I'm thirsty. Did I put any water out for the dog? I fish a bottle from one of my panniers and fill a jar

lid that serves as his water dish, set it in the corner. Anticipation percolates through me as I open a wooden cabinet above the metal table. It's the same anticipation I felt in the corner. Anticipation percolates through me as I open a wooden cabinet above the metal table. It's the same anticipation I felt in the city, opening up abandoned apartments with Georgia. The time before mine was a period of unimaginable abundance of goods. Always, I am mining that time, salvaging its leftovers, hobbling them together to make my own spare life. leftovers, hobbling them together to make my own spare life. What holdover treasures will I discover here? The first thing I see is a pack of matches and a lighter and a roll of toilet paper, half used up. This, already, is a bonanza. I've been lighting fires with my flint in the dry inner bark of pine trees. I learned to make fires with the flint in the city using paper

trash as kindling, and Maude's group taught me about the tree bark. Dislider and matches will make things go so much faster. That'll be nice. Until they run out, and then it's back to the Flint. And toilet paper. I can't remember the last time I had toilet paper. In the city, toilet paper was for rich people. We used trash paper dampened with water,

and water squeezed from cheap plastic bottles to make a bidet. Since leaving the city, I've used moss, grasses folded over into a bunch, smooth stones. There's a deck of cards, a handful of dirty dice, a few pencils, and some scrap paper. A small red zippered pouch with a white cross on it. A first aid kit. These often don't hold much that's truly useful.

Some safety pins, gauze, things like that. But you never really know. Lastly, there's a note written on a scrap of paper. Lottie, moonlight at the end of the world, with you falling in love among the stars. Yours, Alfonso. I run my end of the world, with you falling in love among the stars. Yours, Alfonso. I run my fingers over the words, place the note carefully back in the cabinet. Other people's sadnesses.

Years gone. There's a long wooden storage box under the metal table and I lift the lid. Plastic bags. Packages, seemingly intact. This box must be mouse-proof. I rifle through them, a Ziploc of broken noodles, a cardboard box of instant mashed potatoes, some cans, their labels gone, likely too old to eat without risk getting sick. And then some thick plastic packages that are still sealed, freeze dried meals, faded and old, but not yet expired.

These are gold. They last decades. This is a major score. We're eating good tonight, I say to the dog, who is busy sniffing at every corner. He lifts his leg and lets a stream of urine run down the table support. Hey now, I say, this is inside. You can't do that. He looks at me, curious. In the bottom of the metal bin is a notebook, and I flip it open. It's full of entries, the earliest dated 15 years ago. 15 years. Apparently this place operated as something called a fire lookout tower, a place to watch for wildfires, back when there was still state infrastructure beyond the cities. Someone lived up here and looked out these

big windows and watched for smoke and recorded their observations every day. And if they saw a fire, they contacted some sort of authority, and those people would send out helicopters to fight the fire. Helicopters way out here. I can't imagine the infrastructure that used to exist to move all that fuel all this way. Just the work it would take to clean the fallen trees off all these roads must have been staggering. Elsewhere in the shack, I find a metal lantern lacking fuel, an enamel plate and cup, a couple of forks. On the windowsill is a pair of binoculars, a plant identification book, a book on local birds. A plastic tote on the floor holds an old rolled sleeping bag that smells pleasantly of mildew and a couple of paperback westerns. There's a

large blue water container that's empty. A wave of dizziness reminds me that I'm actually quite hungry. At the table, I rip open one of the freeze-dried meals. The plastic is brittle and breaks apart in my hands. I empty the contents into my pot with some water from one of the freeze-dried meals. The plastic is brittle and breaks apart in my hands. I empty the contents into my pot with some water from one of my bottles and set it to boil on the small can wood stove. I've been gathering twigs in the morning and carrying them with me in case I end up camping in a spot without trees and need to cook dinner. And I'm happy to have those twigs now so I don't have to climb down all those steps. While the water heats I close my eyes allowing myself to enjoy the absolute stillness of this space. This safety is an illusion I know. For true safety I need a source of water, some way to get more food, and ideally other people.

But now that my bike is broken... We're just going to chill here for a bit and rest, I say to the dog, who is napping in a sunbeam on the worn wooden floor, and then we'll figure out what's next. I think the meal was supposed to be lasagna, or some approximation of lasagna. Now it tastes rancid and the textures are all wrong, but the dog and I eat it anyway. The drowsiness that follows is a force that cannot be stopped, and I lay down on the cot with

the dog, the mildewed sleeping bag pulled over us, as well as our own. I imagine that I can sense that other time in the camp cabin sleeping bag, that previous world, Lottie and Alfonso, smelling of flowers and pine pitch and warmed over sweat, falling in love at the end of the world. falling in love at the end of the world. When I wake, it's dark and cold. The dog is whining at me. He has to take a shit most likely. Well, that's consider of him to want to do it outside. The moon is still fairly large and the table and wood stove are cast in silver. I try to move and I can't. I'm pinned to the. With pain. Tensing my abdomen to sit up causes a stab in my ribcage as though there's a sword running through it. Fuck, I say aloud. God fucking damn it. The dog lifts his ears and looks at me, winds again. Slowly, slowly I roll to my side,

push myself into a sitting position using my arms. It's excruciating, but not impossible. My leg is sore, but walking as slowly is tolerable. However, lifting anything, including the wooden hatch on the floor that leads to the staircase, creates another sort of pain in my chest. I'm crying by the time I set the dog on the stairs beside me. I look at the dog. Maybe I can send him down by himself? But he's so small, and there are predators. Openly sobbing, I make my way down the stairs after him, gripping the guardrail. By the time I reach the ground, I feel as though I'm going to throw up. Not that, though.

Vomiting would be horrifically painful. I want to laugh, but that would hurt too. The dog noses his way around the shadows, arcs his back, produces one tiny, perfect shit. My bike is there, leaning against the steel supports of the tower, glinting in the moonlight. I touch the metal, so cold it's almost frosty. I'm cold too. I'm starting to shiver, and that hurts. The dog is already bounding his way back up the staircase. I turn to follow him. I'll deal with my bike tomorrow. The dawn comes long and red, the cold bite of nighttime banished by the slow warm of the

morning. I woke when it was still dark and lay for hours in the sleeping bag. Watching the night fade, the dog curled against my belly. When I am still, the pain is still, but every time I move, it hollers at me again. Now I close my eyes, feel the morning sun on my face. I've got to figure out what to do. With great effort, I get myself upright and make my way to the table to heat some water for breakfast. Putting weight on my leg feels worse today, and in a strange way. I lift my skirt and press my cool palm to the skin around the gash, which is scabbed over. The skin is hot to the touch, and red, and swollen, sort of hard. Wait, did I clean this yesterday?

Did I even fucking clean this? I holler in the tower, letting my voice carry out over the bright vacant world. The dog glances up at me, curious. How could I have forgotten to clean the cut on my leg? How? For all I know, it's got fucking sticks in there. I was so excited to find some stupid fucking matches and freeze-dried meals that I forgot to clean a fucking gash on my leg? meals that I forgot to clean a fucking gash on my leg? No, no, no, no, no, I say to the tower, to the sky, to the whole uncaring universe that spirals around itself into cold, infinite space. My head is a rush of noise. I sit at the table and break sticks, unthinking,

stuff them into my stove. I pour water into my pot, shake the empty bottle, that's the last of my water, and light the sticks without comprehension. I unfocus my gaze at the blank windows in the blue sky beyond, wait for the panic to pass. The water boils over, scalding my hand, brings me back into my body. Yesterday, I ate a flake from the box of instant mashed potatoes. It tasted like nothing, as though the plant matter had been replaced by dust, the way bones and rock are replaced with minerals to make fossils. Oh well, I'm eating the potatoes anyway. I dump the contents of the box into the water, remove the pot from the heat, set it aside. I put my head on the cool metal table, close my eyes. Think. I eyes, think.

I've got to think. And you know what she thought of? She thought of these great ads. She invented all of them. Yeah, that's, you know, in the future when the television networks break down because the grid has largely failed, the advertisements will continue in our soul uh because because all ads come from a special secret place where the human spirit dwells just a little little leech just sucking on them you could view it as that as well too sure here they are. to the destruction of Google search, better offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose.

This season, I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel-winning economists to leading journalists in the field, and I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong, though. I love technology.

I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. Hola mi gente, it's Honey German and I'm bringing you Gracias, Come Again. The podcast where we dive deep

into the world of Latin culture, musica, peliculas, and entertainment with some of the biggest names in the game. If you love hearing real conversations with your favorite Latin celebrities, artists, and culture shifters, this is the podcast for you. We're talking real conversations

with our latin stars from actors and artists to musicians and creators sharing their stories struggles and successes you know it's going to be filled with chisme laughs and all the vibes that you love each week we'll explore everything from music and pop culture to deeper topics like identity community and breaking down barriers in all sorts of industries. Don't miss out on the fun, el té caliente, and life stories. Join me for Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get into todo lo actual y viral. Listen to Gracias Come Again on the iHeartRadio app,

Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean, he looked so fresh. And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere. Elian Gonzalez. Elian. Elian.

Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. everywhere. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with. His father in Cuba. Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation. Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well.

Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. And we're back. I've never been much for wound care. Back in the city, organizing with Georgia and the others, that was never my role. I was good at breaking into buildings, stealing boxes of food from the backs of trucks that were unloading, dumpstering, making connections to get resources we couldn't scavenge or steal. Georgia was the one in the group with some basic medical knowledge.

If someone stepped on something sharp or twisted their ankle jumping down from a chain link fence, she was there. Hospitals were great places to get disappeared, so people like Georgia were crucial. It wasn't always possible to help every problem, like with Rick and his abscessed tooth, and how impossible it was to find antibiotics. But Georgia, and others like her, did what they could. Now, spooning tasteless potato mush into my mouth in this isolated fire tower far from the last vestiges of a dying empire, I wish that I had taken the time to learn basic wound care from Georgia. What an idiot I am. I drop some potatoes on the ground for the dog and he horks them down and then he licks the wooden floor clean. I've got to get more water. What would kill me first,

dehydration or my infected wound? I want to laugh. Where was the last water I passed? A little seep on the side of the road. Yesterday. I made a clear pool in the grass. How many miles back was that? My bike is too broken to ride. I'd be traveling on foot. And I'm in so much pain, I can barely move. Maybe once my ribs have recovered some, I can walk to the water source. I can barely move. Maybe once my ribs have recovered some, I can walk to the water source. In a few days? Right now, I can't travel that far. I need to find something closer. Shutting my eyes, I visualize the mountain. Where has the water been on this ridge so far? It bubbles from up from underground, streams and springs likely replenished by snowmelt.

When traveling with Maude's group, we found it by watching for different kinds of plant life. There'd be dry slopes of yellow grasses and stiff woody brush, and then, in a fold in the mountain, a riot of green. We'd make our way to this drainage and follow it downhill or uphill, sometimes splitting into two groups to go both ways, until we heard or smelled water. It just rained a ton. I think back to my night under the tarp, so that should help things. I eyeball the blue plastic five-gallon water container that sits in the corner of the tower. I should take that thing with me on my search for water. Empty, it'll be light enough,

but how will I even lift it once it's full with my injured ribs? One thing at a time, I say out loud to myself. In the cabinet, I find the first aid kit and rifle through it, not expecting much. There's some ancient band-aids that glue likely useless, a roll of gauze, some sterile wipes. And then, good god, an amber-colored pill bottle. It rattles in my hand. It has pills inside. The label says doxycycline. A fucking antibiotic. It rattles in my hand. It has pills inside. The label says doxycycline. A fucking antibiotic.

I can't believe my luck. I upend the bottle. The dozen or so pills in my palm are brown and oblong and have I-2 etched into them. These are not antibiotics. They're ibuprofen. I take a deep breath and tip the pills back into the bottle, setting four aside. These will be helpful for the pain, at least. They'll make my water-gathering trip a bit easier.

It takes a while to get down the stairs. My body has grown stiffer as the day has progressed. But by the time I'm walking along the ridge away from the tower, following the faint jeep track overgrown with weeds that heads more or less in a westerly direction. The ibuprofen is kicked in and the pain feels a little farther away. Isn't so sharp as to make me want to throw up my mashed potatoes. Which is good because I wouldn't want to waste what little food I have. The dog is trotting beside me, happy to be walking in the sunshine, not a care in the world. My leg has begun to throb and I try to ignore it, repeating the mantra one thing at a time to myself and taking breaks whenever I need them,

sitting on the water jug and staring out over the valley below. I don't know how fast I'm walking or how much time has passed exactly, but it's afternoon when the jeep track ends and a single footpath continues on along the rocky ridge. The footpath drops down into a cluster of trees and I see a promising sight. A depression filled with green grass. I dig with my fingers in the grass. The earth is dark and moist here, but there's no standing water. Damn. Below the depression is a cleft in

the trees dropping down filled with rocks and boulders. I should follow this. The going is slow though, with my jug and my injured legs and my ribs. Each small drop down from a large boulder, dragging the banging water jug after me, makes me dizzy with pain and hunger now too, and it takes me time to steady myself for the next obstacle. My pace slows to a crawl as the afternoon lengthens. I try not to let panic cloud my decision-making as I push on, down the boulder-choked ravine. The ibuprofen has long since worn off

and the last of the light is fading when I smell minerals and feel the air change on my skin. I find the pool in the lee of a large granite boulder, clear water about elbow deep in the middle, dancing with water bugs. In this moment, the rest of my worries drop away and the pain and panic-induced fog clears. In this moment, I have solved the greatest and most basic of life's puzzles, and I want for nothing. moment, I have solved the greatest and most basic of life's puzzles, and I want for nothing. I am happy in the purest sense. I fill a water bottle and guzzle the entire thing. Now for the hunger, I pull a freeze-dried meal from my backpack and laboriously crunch up and swallow a few handfuls

of the dried contents, which taste like salt and not much else else followed by another bottle of cold, perfect water. The dog drinks his fill and gets part of my meal too and then settles down in the warm sand ready for bed. Through the trees, I can see the molten orange of the sunset and I allow a moment of perfect contentment to pass before I ask myself what exactly I mean to do now. The cold is coming, and I'm already chilled, the heat of the day escaping into the atmosphere. I brought my sleeping bag with me,

and I decide to sleep here, next to the water, and figure out what my next steps will be in the morning, when the sun returns. Animals will want to use this watering hole in the night, most likely, and I don't want to spook or be spooked by them. So I walk a little bit into the trees until I find a flat, dry patch of ground. I'm more than exhausted, my broken body aching in new ways from trying to compensate for its injuries while I hike down this ravine, and it feels blissful to escape into the warm depths of my sleeping bag, the dog like a hot water bottle against me, and cinch the hood closed over my face, leaving just my nose sticking out. It's warm in my down cocoon, and the forest is peaceful and still,

and sleep comes easily. My sleep is full of nightmares, and I wake multiple times in the night, unsure at first where I am, some part of my body uncomfortable or in pain. I roll over with difficulty and drift off, only to wake again in a new kind of pain. I'm relieved when the first of the light begins to bleed into the sky, and I lay there, eyes open, listening to the sounds of the forest, aching and almost, but not quite warm enough, and wait impatiently for the warmth of the sun. Dawn finds me sitting on the sand next to the pool, shivering slightly, using one of my water bottles to fill the five-gallon jug.

Soon most of the pool is inside the jug, water bugs and all, and I am contemplating how to get the beastly heavy thing back up the ravine to the ridge. Lifting it is out of the question. Just one half-hearted try and my ribs are screaming at me. But maybe I can drag it? The dog sits a little bit away in a patch of sun and watches without judgment as I use my knife to trim the hem of my dress in one long spiraling strip. The fabric twists easily into a small rope that is not, I decide, strong enough to pull five gallons of water,

and I reluctantly return half the jug to the pool. Although I am disappointed, this turn of events pleases the water bugs greatly. One end of the rope ties to the handle of the water jug, and the other I wrap around a fixed stick, which will be easier to hold onto than the rope itself. I take a few tentative steps up the slope, my feet digging into the deep pine needles. The jug tugs me back, and then a bright pain as my core engages, moving my broken rib, plus the dull, throbbing pain in my leg. Fuck. There is no way I can pull this drug uphill. My head turns to static again, and I sit on the sun-warmed ground and try to gather myself. I mustn't panic. The situation is very bad,

but panicking will make it worse. I must not make things worse. The dog pads over to me and climbs in my lap, curls into a donut, and shuts his eyes. He's not worried. He trusts in my ability to figure things out. Oh, that I was as clever and powerful as my dog thinks I am. I shoo the dog off and ease myself up again, slowly so as to not jostle my ribs, and stare at the water jug, willing myself to solve this puzzle. I can't carry the jug. I can't drag the jug. What can I do? The water sloshes as I pour the rest of it back into the pool. I chug a liter and fill the two bottles in my backpack. These two liters are all I can carry,

but at least it's more water than I had yesterday. The ravine looks completely different on the climb up and I recognize almost nothing. I chastise myself for not noting more landmarks, but my experience on the way down was clouded heavily by thirst, exhaustion, and pain. Still, next time I should be more careful. When I'm halfway to the top, I sit for a long moment and let the pain subside. Want to sit there forever, but make myself stand again. Hunger is making me dizzy. The freeze-dried meal I ate last night was the only food I brought, and I've already burned through the little bit I saved and ate for breakfast.

I imagine dumpsters full of stale bread, sheet cakes stolen off the backs of trucks, greasy street food and other abundances of the city. I imagine Georgia, her soft fingers on my scalp as she braids my hair in the first light on the rooftop, whispering to me about her dreams the night before. Would I have been better off if I'd just stayed? Yes, for a little while. And then? That world is behind me, I say aloud as I brush the pine needles off my dress and pick up the blue jug again. That world is lost, and in its place,

I've gained something I didn't even know I'd been missing. These mountains, the arid valleys. I mean to try and find my mother, and I mean to make my home here, figure out what to eat, and how to live,

and where the people are. Or maybe just die trying. That's the end. Damn. Right? You can really tell it's written by somebody who knows what it's like to be out in the middle of nowhere without

any kind of technological assistance. Yeah. Surviving based on your wits and whatever you happen to have in your backpack, which is more minimal than the most prepper types at least are going to put in a YouTube video, right? Like this is, this is somebody who's like spent a lot of time dealing with the problems of like, there's not water or not clean water or like I've gotten myself sick or hurt and

now I have to figure it out on my own. Yeah, no, totally. Like I remember the first time I read this, I read some like YA book when I was a kid and I'd run away from home at one point by that point. And I'd like slept outside and I did not sleep, right? I was too cold. It was, you know, June and it was too cold and I couldn't sleep. And so I read this book and the kid like runs away and sleeps on the park bench and just like goes to sleep.

And I'm like, nope, this motherfucker, whoever wrote this has never slept outside, never slept hard. Yeah. You know, that first night you're sleeping outside by yourself. No, you're not. Yeah. Not without a not without a sleeping bag. No. Yeah. Not without a not without a sleeping bag. No. Yeah. I mean, not even like honestly, like sleeping, not even just sleeping hard, sleeping like a medium.

Yeah. I don't know what you call like when you're not like out in the middle of nowhere or whatever, but like because of some sort of situation like you're you're traveling around and shit gets fucked up with a card or whatever like if i had to like crash on benches in you know uh airports or whatever and like yeah that's not really sleeping let alone being out in the woods alone for the first time yeah totally yeah no but yeah and you're right that is the thing that i really liked about when i was reading the story i was like oh and there's also like it's a good infotainment too. Right. Because you're like, I've done,

I've been in the woods a lot and stuff, but I've never been without water in the woods. Right. Yeah. And so I've never had to do the work of like, Oh, that's where the grass is and follow that. Yeah.

And you can tell that either carrot has, and I mean, I've, I've read her through hiking stuff. So I know that she's run out of water on a hike before, you know, but like knows the actual answers. And I think that's really cool. Yeah, that happened to me once in the Himalayas.

And it was because I was with someone else is the only reason I really got out of that situation, because I was like heat stroking out and don't think I would have had the presence of mind to. stroking out and don't think I would have had the presence of mine too. And so it was like, she basically kept me going and literally like crawling across the ground until we found a stream where we could refill. And thankfully we had tablets and stuff on us, but like, yeah, I don't know what I would have done if I had been alone in that situation.

Cause like I was in pain and that's the other thing, the degree to which like being in pain, like physically injured when you're alone in a situation like this is like an intoxication effect, right? Like not in a positive sense, but in the sense that it sort of like deranges your ability to make choices. Yeah. And it's like that first nap the character takes is so real, you know, the like, ah, I need to do a million things.

I just got out of a really bad situation. Good night. You know, that's so real. Well, I'm excited to read this book. When is it out? I don't think there's an actual date yet. So I just want to let people know that they should be on the lookout and they should follow the lookout and they should

follow carrot and they should carrot has a sub stack um and does a lot of like travel blog stuff and again i really enjoyed through hiking will break your heart and i expect i will really enjoy the sunset route which is the memoir that talks a little bit more about the pre her life before like what led her to be hopping trains and all that stuff but i haven't read that one yet but i really like okay i like i the other thing i like is i like the immediacy of the writing i like that it is written like someone who is a through hiking blogger yeah as an apocalypse walker you know like you don't read a lot of present tense writing. Yeah. And I like I like to and you can tell they this is by someone who knows their shit because this is how it's angled or at least how this part's angled. Where like scrubs who have never been outside of the city for any real period of time, who've never been out on their own, need to imagine like zombies or some shit to make the apocalypse scary.

Real heads know the scariest thing is just being alone out in a situation where there's absolutely no chance of rescue yeah yeah totally yeah that's plenty of danger yeah days and days could go by with everything being completely fine and then you can crash your bike and then you're like well now what you know yep the times that i feel the most i'm a grown-up now is when i am doing something and something goes wrong and i am the only one who can fix it you know um and i don't like that feeling yeah i want to be able to like do things collaboratively or have other people take care of me. Yeah. But, you know. It's, it's, it's also, it's scary. That kind of shit. I mean, it depends on how fast an emergency, because there's fast emergencies and slow emergencies, right?

There's the, if I don't act right now, someone is going to die for whatever reason. Or I will be beyond rescue. And then there's slow emergencies where it's like, there's not really a ticking clock, but if I don't figure this out at some point, things will inevitably degrade. And yeah, the fast emergencies in the moment, if you get through them, there's only so much fear that you can actually have because you have very little time, right? You're making a choice and you're acting. It's the weeks afterwards when you realize like, oh shit, if I hadn't made exactly the right choice in this one moment, like the consequences would have been nightmarish. And like you kind of, in some cases, spend the rest of your life thinking about that.

Yeah. One time I was driving my van that i lived in through the mountains and it was just a sudden blizzard and yeah i spun 180 on a mountain curvy road on the freeway in the snow with like no control over my van and it was just slow motion and then i didn't go over the edge uh i did like 18 point turn to get back and then just kept driving through this blizzard. But it was nothing I could do for like the next what should have been two hour drive and was like a five or six hour drive. You know, and that the slow motion 180 turn sucked the next five hours where no one could. The only way out was through, you know?

Yeah. And you're like, okay, this is what I'm doing. I hope I don't fuck up. Yeah. Yeah. No, I had a, I had a situation where I was out in the middle of nowhere in the mountains with a friend and her dog. And, uh, I, I'm keeping some details from this because there's some stuff I shouldn't say.

But both the first her dog fell into this very fast moving stream of water. And she, without kind of thinking, dove in after it and was was attempting to, like, grab the dog, like had a hold on it as it was getting pulled. And then it got pulled down and she wound up getting pulled into the water just because of the speed of it. And yelled for me to go like save her dog. So I started running down and then like 10 feet on, I'm like, what the fuck am I? I have to get her out of the water. And it was one of those like, if I hadn't, you know, done strength train because she weighed probably an extra 80 pounds with all of the water inflating her winter gear and everything. If, you know, if I hadn't, you know, had the physical strength to get her out, if I had run a little further down the path before turning back to come get her,

like, cause the dog, by the way, was fine. It's a dog. Like it got sucked into the water and then it, and then it got, it crawled out of the water when it calmed down. But I don't know that she would have been right. Like, in fact, I doubt she would have. And it's one of those things that like I haven't because we were completely out in the middle of nowhere. No cell service or anything. We were an hour walk from our car. So it was like one of those as as as little like, you know, it was just my decisions in that moment that we're going to have an impact on the situation. And it was just my decisions in that moment that were going to have an impact on the situation. And it was fine.

And it was, you know, maybe 90 seconds. But it's 90 seconds that I will be thinking about for the next 50 years. Or, you know, however long I make it. Yeah. God. Well, if you want to experience that in fiction form instead of, you know. And I mean, and that's why we read adventure you know

it's like is to experience that safely because we do experience it otherwise but it's nicer when you can experience it safely and for more daring stories of adventure wait for more Cool Zone Media

book club every Sunday on the Cool People Who Did Cool Stuff and the It Could Happen Here feed. Yes, that's right. And check out our upcoming book club, Reading Rainbow, but spelled the way they do in Louisiana, like E-A-U-X. And it's just the same stories as in the book club, but we do a fake Cajun accent. That's right. That is all

robert it's entirely entirely me uh i'll have a guest that i cook an etouffee for uh don't even know what an etouffee is but i know it's fucking cajun so you know yeah check in for that one yeah at the end we eat beignets that's all i I got. It's been called offensive by the Cajun Anti-Defamation League. But they don't know where I live. That's right. That's right. What are they going to do? Come up from the swamps?

Yeah. They'll never make it in the mountains. They probably would. Those are probably pretty impressive people. Well, if I survive till next week, I'll have another story for you. See you all soon. It Could Happen Here is a production of Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from Cool Zone Media, visit our website, coolzonemedia.com,

or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for It Could Happen Here updated monthly at CoolZoneMedia.com slash sources. Thanks for listening. Curious about queer sexuality, cruising, and expanding your horizons? Hit play on the sex-positive and deeply entertaining podcast, Sniffy's Cruising Confessions. We'll see you next time. Now on the iHeartRadio app or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes every Thursday. The 2025 iHeart Podcast Awards are coming. This is the chance to nominate your podcast for the industry's biggest award. Submit your podcast for nomination now at iHeart.com slash podcast awards. But hurry, submissions close on December 8th.

Hey, you've been doing all that talking. It's time to get rewarded for it. Submit your podcast today at iHeart.com slash podcast awards. That's iHeart.com slash podcast awards. Welcome to Gracias Come Again, a podcast by Honey German, where we get real and dive straight into todo lo actual y viral. We're talking música, los premios, el chisme, and all things trending in my cultura. I'm bringing you all the latest happening in our entertainment world and some fun and impactful interviews with your favorite Latin artists,

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