This Journal is named after the West Desert of Utah — a vast, lonely stretch of basin-and-range country that has been used and abused by the U.S. government for weapons testing, waste dumping, and all manner of toxic experiments. The more a place is written off as worthless, the more it calls to me. The more it is scarred, mismanaged, neglected, misunderstood, or dismissed, the more beautiful it becomes.
The West Desert is one of those places.
Out here, silence isn’t empty — it’s layered with memory, mystery, culture, faith, ghosts, wind, and whatever truths you’re brave enough to face. This Journal exists as a witness to those quieter stories. It isn’t tourism. It isn’t boosterism. It isn’t nostalgia. It’s simply the record of a life lived in conversation with the land.
If some people see the desert as America’s “wastebasket,” then they and I are not on the same side of the fire. What others throw away, I tend to hold close.
Inside these pages you’ll find writing, poetry, photographs, field notes, personal reflections, and long wandering thoughts about the wide-open Southwest — especially the forgotten corners most folks only pass through on the way to somewhere else.
This is a place for stillness.
For honesty.
For the strange gravity of the desert.
Welcome to West Desert Journal.