I’m out living, working, and breathing isolation every day now. My life is far from a phony reality that once enslaved my poor spirit. I’m on the edge of the enourmous Grand Canyon now and hear the wind, and the lonesome happy singing of gentle ravens gliding along buttes of Hermit Shale, Toroweap Sandstone, and Kiabab Limestone. The Creosote bushes span as far as the horizon. So many cacti cover the lower portions of the Canyon; three species of Prickly Pear, Hedgehog Cactus, Barrel Cactus, and Fishhook Cactus. Spanish Bayonet, also known as Banana Yucca intermix with creosote, sage, Ephedra Bush, and Desert Holly. Jimson Weed (Datura) grows everywhere, around the ranch, over by the hen house, and up and down every flash flood gully. The large white trumpet flowers are so seductive. I know of the plant’s deadly power.
I work in Whitmore Canyon, a tributary canyon of the Colorado River. It is simple here. All is quiet. It is easy to push out any existing noise and know the a beauty that surrounds me all the time. I’m visiting the rushing red waters of the Colorado river on a regular schedule, educating folks about the truth and the history of this area. They listen very carefully when visiting the canyon. They listen to what I have to say and are appreciative.
It has been dry here. The clouds have been encouraged to drop rain on the ranch but they often hesitate, moveing up and over Mount Logan, north of the ranch. I want to hear the flood waters rushing down Whitmore Wash. Oh, how I crave the sounds of thunder and rain. But the desert is so beautiful. I’m surrounded by solitude and I hesitate to go home every weekend.