The PHurrowed Brow

I awoke with my alarm and with difficulty at 5 a.m. and pulled clothes on. Down the hall I went to Hillman’s door I went, with maybe 45 seconds to revisit the shocking experiences he’d shared with me and to worry that I had made a bad choice in leaving him alone. I knocked. Twice, and I was extremely afraid when I got no response to either attempt. But at the third try, Hillman opened the door.

This segment ends series featuring mountains both real and figurative,
climbs that are successful and not, and water that is varyingly life-giving, dirty, and toxic.
The series narrates experiences of me and of those around me in June and July of 2023.

This series features disturbing content: suicide, addiction, and reports of racial and sexual violence. The narrative reflects my experiences and what was reported to me.
I have no certainty that the reports made to me were true,
but I had to consider them to be possibly true at the time that I heard them.
Please do not read further if these matters jeopardize your wellbeing.
If you are in a low spot of such a kind, please reach out.
Reach out to me, to anyone you trust, or to the 988 help line.

An unsuccessful climb

We talked briefly. It was long enough to figure out that he had continued drinking from his stash and was still intoxicated. It was also long enough to tell him that I was glad to see him and that I’d wait outside his room while he gathered up his stuff in preparation for his bus ride. We did not revisit what he had shared with me the night before. By 5:40 he was ready and, with me behind him, he rumbled down the stairs and out to the bench at the front of the hotel. The sun had yet to clear the mountains to the east, but first light was over and in the Gunnison valley.

All Hillman’s talkativeness from the prior night was gone, as both the alcohol and fatigue perhaps added to the weight upon him. Perhaps, too, the shift from dark to light made it difficult to discuss things openly again. Either way, he was not speaking and seemed quite uncomfortable. I left him briefly to check with the hotel manager about the bus and to see about getting Hillman some coffee. Fellow #1 (whom I mentioned in yesterday’s post) was there in the lobby, as he was waiting for the same bus. The manager kindly confirmed that the bus stopped there and was due at 6:10 a.m., and directed me to coffee in the breakfast room. Fellow #1 exited to wait closer to the street, and I returned to Hillman on the bench. I told him what I had learned about the bus and gave him the coffee. There were about 20 minutes to wait for the bus, and in the first 30 seconds after a single sip, Hillman spilled the rest trying to put it down.

Suddenly it seemed excruciating to stand over him for the rest of the time ‘til the bus would come. (Yes, I was again falling into my habitual ‘fix-or-flee’ response.) I had not fixed any problems for Hillman, and I had started to feel like an intruder in his grief. Additionally, I was tired and wanted to get a few more hours of rest. And so to me it seemed that he could independently move the 20 feet from the bench to where the bus would stop when the time came. Besides, I thought, the hotel manager was just inside the door and Fellow #1 was in view at the edge of the parking lot. Both could help Hillman if he asked for it.

With those notions letting me think that there was nothing else for me to do, I told Hillman of my plans to get more rest, reminded him that he had my phone number, wished him well, and went off to my room.

Hillman never climbed the steps of the bus. I awoke again around 8:30 and soon had packed all my gear up, I found that I had two texts from Hillman: “I need help” and “Please.” Not knowing where he was nor whether there was a new crisis, nor how I might help him, I sent him info about the 988 Suicide Help Line and encouraged him to call it. I loaded my pick-up and got fuel and coffee. In the text conversation that ensued amidst my stops, I learned that he had lost his bags and had not caught the bus (“No bus came”), and that he had 5% battery. I wondered if Fellow #1 had made the bus, and whether the driver had not let Hillman aboard in his obviously drunken state. I asked myself all kinds of other questions, including why I had not stayed with him for those last 20 minutes to see him on his way. In our exchange, he sent a dropped pin with his location a few blocks from the hotel. He had no memory of how he got there from the hotel or where he might have left his bags. What, I wondered, could I do?

By this time, too, I was also thinking of the help that my wife, daughter, and C needed in Lafayette. And, selfishly, I thought, too, of my limits in what I could or would do for Hillman. I knew that I was not prepared to help him find his bags, then take him, drunk, in my vehicle for a four-plus-hour ride to his buddy’s house and truck, then drive the remaining two hours to Lafayette. I was not even prepared to go back to the hotel and ask the manager whether the bus had come, or if hotel staff for some reason had Hillman’s bags. I texted Hillman, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to help find them.”

Before leaving town, I made the decision to visually verify his location and contact the police. I was quickly able to flag down a patrol car and briefly explained that I’d had contact with a man who was potentially suicidal, was intoxicated, and needed help. The sergeant listened, then asked, “Is his name Hillman?” I, surprised, indicated that it was, and when asked for Hillman’s location, I told it to the sergeant who said that he would talk go talk to him. I didn’t have the presence of mind to ask why the sergeant already seemed to know something about Hillman’s predicament.

With that I left town. Later that afternoon, my journey complete, but my feelings incredibly unsettled, I texted Hillman, “Just checking in. I hope that you’ve got your gear back and are feeling stronger about living and moving toward sober.” Hillman never replied.

Postscript: After three weeks I sent another text to Hillman’s number. He replied, wondering who I was. I briefly shared that I had met him in the high country and that we had talked during his crisis there. He remembered (and mis-remembered) parts of that evening and thanked me, in his way. He was still in the Colorado Springs area. His money and insurance were used up, and he was therefore about to leave rehab. “Idk what to do.” I shared some links and numbers for AA groups in the area and encouraged him to keep going.

In my different and privileged way, IDK what to do either. I haven’t tried to text him since August.

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