There is too much beauty in life to take for granted. So when life seems heavy, stop for a moment to listen to the wind sifting through the pines, or the clouds rolling and tumbling in the sky. Earth is a peaceful sphere. The universe that she travels through is endless. Trillions of unknown things abide in space and we barely know a few. Be glad that the Creator has given us this dwelling place, with warm sunshine to fall upon us each day. The sky above us is turquoise blue, and that is something to be thankful for. The life that you move around in is a miracle. You are alive!

In my waking life, I move about like everybody else. I hear the
constant sounds of reality, but my mind is somewhere else. My hopes
are on a higher plane, like the lonesome eagle gliding on the wind.
Feeling very content, I can safely say that the world needs a change.
With all the loud things that plug up everyday life, severe isolation
tends to be very enticing to me. My dreams cannot compete with the
current trends of this society. I am here, but I am not really
here. It is more like I am praying for the current reality to end, and
for something else to take over. I want the silence to take over. You
know, that place in the wild where the clouds dwell? I’m
waiting, always waiting. I have plenty of patience…

Little painted creatures crawl down dark canyon walls. The creek is trickling. Crickets hum. The tower of stars ignite. Deep twinkling universe erases time, and fills empty space with the ages. Long ago, little people came here, passed through here, and their spirit remains. Images dance across the stone panels. The visions are possessive, intoxicating. At night, during sleep paranormal entities speak of long ago. I dream of a Pinion skeleton against hard turquoise sky…

…I think of a lone coyote shrouded by night, cut off from the pack. I’m glaring into the campfire, thinking that he may come into camp, not fearing me. Stranger things have happened in old ghost towns, or in the darkness of faltering mines. Yes, I used to go down mine shafts, bringing an Eastwing pick, a hard hat, and a black fluorescent lamp to look at minerals. I stopped exploring them when I returned to the old Ohio Mine, above Minersville to see it had caved in. Being up in the mountain, having bears come into camp while the fire is stoked, I have learned that everything happens in the boonies. Being on the high desert, my imagination can run rampant, but I still get some shut-eye.

I feel more and more like a hermit. It is tuning me, and the sound is clearer then ever. It is just a matter of deciding what’s worth leaving, and what’s worth keeping in this world of unknown things. One day, you’ll see my car blazing down dirt roads. But the next, I’ll be a ghost in the wild. I’m finding the eternal peace of isolation, desolation, and solitude. The desert has invaded my life, and my imagination. I walk in beautiful plateau and basin valleys, and mountain ranges.

There was an old man up there on the mountains near New Harmony. He had a long white beard, was missing a few teeth, but had the deepest gaze of any human being. He wouldn?t say a word, but he would wave, smile, and continue on in his routine. He lived in a parked trailer near the edge of a creek, and drove around in an old Chevy caked in mud. I never had the courage to go visit him, but he soon disappeared and I never saw him again. That canyon is now empty and quiet. When I go up in there, I only hear the elements, the sweet birds.

There are these reclusive types living all over the Great Basin, way out yonder where no tourist dares to venture without getting eaten by vultures. As I drive the old dirt roads across long basin valleys, ravens roost on fence lines and hover around juniper covered desert hills. It happens sporadically, but when I venture down some dirt road, I?m never surprised to cross paths with these people.

Yes, I may be very na?ve, or very rude in mentioning the private lives of these individuals, but I hope that isn?t the case. Their way of life sparks my deep curiosity… For me, the dirt road is my trail of beauty, and the quiet landscape is my home. Home is where deep dark cloud shadows pass over carved and painted wastelands. It’s not hard for me to fall asleep a hundred miles from any services, beneath the galactic sky. I am accepting the possibility that I may become a lone drifter to the hills. When I die, I?ll be the ghost that haunts the empty landscape.

The gnarly bristlecone stands mighty on the rocky ledge beneath tremendous, galactic clouds. The clouds are merging into a great mother ship descending upon the high country. Beneath the ridge grow vast isolated groves of Aspen, patched with sprawling open meadows; the rest of the landscape is covered in old timber, and within certain areas, has been attacked by the bark beetle. If you visit places like Brian Head, twenty miles east, it looks like a cemetary of trees. Down the backside of this ridge, nestled in a small mountain valley is the natural forming, Navajo Lake. It?s a slender, long-tall lake and its waters are a green and turquoise blue. The lake is fed by natural springs, and is a result of recent volcanic activity. There are hundreds of acres of lava flows covering the top of Cedar Mountain, and they were active as recent as 1,100 years ago.There hasn?t been any activity since. Navajo Lake is one of the quietest and most peaceful spots in Southern Utah. There?s a trail that starts from the lake and comes up to the top of this ridge. I followed it up here this morning, and it heads to Cascade Falls about two miles from here. Cascade falls is a mysterious place. The cave where the water comes out loses more oxygen the further back you go.

It is peaceful and tranquil up here. Translucent clouds grow darker. There?s a few stray bolts of lightning. Thunder echoes off in the distance. The land below the ridge continues for 30 miles, all the way down to Zion?s National Park, and I can see the large sandstone towers in the top area of the park. Beyond them, I can see Mount Trumbell, clear off in the Arizona Strip Wilderness. The clouds are growing dark, and they are mystifying and beautiful. There?s nothing more powerful then a thunder storm passing over the high plateau.

The wind wails through the primitive needles of the bristlecone. It?s a torrent of mesmerizing sound, almost like a roaring river, but it is miraculous! Nature is quiet, but when the wild grows audibly loud, it becomes more quiet with mystery. There is feelings that the Earth creates that I cannot describe. There is an essence of beauty that I can never put down. This is one of my secret spots, where the pines can howl all day long. It is a place that I can find beauty away from the doghouse of civilization. My perception of civilization may somewhat be a delusion too, but I don?t see the wilderness as pristine, like some environmentalists would like to believe. This land has been inhabited by humans for thousands of years, maybe millions of years. I think of all the people that have gone before me, and their history is the most amazing part of this country. I think of the Southern Piaute, and their ancestors. I think of the Freemont and ?Anasazi???, or Puebloan Ancestors that lived in this country. When I visit an archeology site, or come across a rock art panel, I don?t forget to show respect. The human history of the land is so rich, and there is so much to learn about that I can barely understand it in its entirety. I’ve tried to imagine what life must of been like, ten thousand years before Columbus set foot in the so-called New World. The ancestors are still here, they are everywhere, because I never feel alone in the desert, or up in the mountains. The voice of the past is out here, in the sprawling hills, in the basin valleys, and everywhere in between!

I don?t want to go back to the city. I want to pitch a tent out here and become a recluse. The city is a strange place that makes me too comfortable, but separates me from the elements. Stay in the city too long, and you forget what the wild sounds like. The wilderness will outlast human creation. It was here before us and it will be here after we become extinct. The mountain is a refuge, and a true friend. Most of my human friends have come and gone with their own agendas. The wilderness has been a friend to lean upon, to depend on. It keeps me moving along. The only thing that stands between my wilderness and me, are those yahoos that destroy beauty.

I am leaving home to be with the wild, the wind. I am leaving my comfort for the darkness of the earth and sky. Deep starry nights are singing. The desert is calling. There’s patience in my planning, but the time draws near. No one understands the mysteries of the world, or why the heavens weep. No one really sees the hidden mysteries.

You have to drop the weight that drags you down. There is only one way to dream. The desert is calling. The land is going to tranform. The old way lives in my heart. My spirit is strong. I’ve been a stubborn son of a gun, but I know where the horizon waits.

The old man is coming. He’s coming to give me his hand. Together we’ll find the place where nothing ever sleeps. He’s the ancient river that roars, He’s the old bristlecone; the sun that comes up in the morning.

So friends, tonight I pack my things and journey into the desert. The Red Rocks are glowing below the crimson sky. The ancient wailing winds are whipping accross the eroded landscape. My soul is scattering accross the bottomless mountain ranges of the desert. My heart is in the tower of stars.

The desert calls in those darkest hours, whispering soft. It’s begging my long-lasting hopes. Tonight, I am treading into the wilderness. I cannot be late for the appointment, with the shadows of the land.

In those sleeping hills time does not exist. When I’m in isolation, I’m alone within the corners of God’s imagination. Below the shifting sand, I ponder previous worlds wherein mankind went absolutely crazy, and vanished. I think of the wide gaping mouth of the Grand Canyon in Arizona and the many quiet places still remaining in this world of bus and computer. But man is becoming evermore crazy. A mystery is drawing nearer, but remains patient. A thunderstorm brings the roaring rain upon housetops. Thunder reverberates through ancient canyons. Unknown rivers flow down unknown channels. This is the constant vision in my heart. The purpose of life is to let the deep wind sing in the soul and for the land to sing. When the world goes into aweful insanity, may the canyon country preserve me.

As crimson rain falls upon glowing wastelands every monsoon night of August, the after vision of the dusk grows evermore mystical. Painted pictures dance across the rocks beneath the stars. The dead coyote speaks against the hunter. The Bristlecone survives because it depends on the wild desert wind, the bone dry rockface in which it stands, and the stone cold elements which give it splendor. Humans have become to dependant on their inventions, but the rug is being pulled. The canyons are waking up with their gazing shadows.

I sheep herded a few years back and worked for Burtons Livestock, out of Parowan, Utah. I couldn’t wait for lambing season to be over, to move the sheep up on the mountain. For a couple of weeks, I could enjoy the aspen and pine before my job was done. The nights spent up there were always magnificent; a billion stars lit the sky, and the pines sung like rivers. I worked with and enjoyed the company of my friend, Tsosie, a 67 year old Navajo sheepherder. It’s been a few years since I last spoke with him. He had told me to come back and visit him on the mountain sometime, but I never did. He spent his summers up there alone, tending sheep. His family lived in Farmington, New Mexico. His son, Thomas said that he had always worked far from home and would come home to visit, maybe once a year. Tsosie worked for the railroad, worked as a sheepherder for several years in the Uintah Mountains of Northern Utah. Work took him as far as California. He swore a lot, told plenty of dirty jokes, and bragged about the all woman he’d met. He was a great friend, and I should’ve gone and visited him before he quit working for the Burtons.

So I wander about my friend… Is he still sheepherding somewhere out in Nevada? Or is he still in Southern Utah? As I dwell on his absence, it would be nice to speak to him again. There are places that I revisit and explore in those same mountains above Parowan. Tsosie talked a lot about those hills. He was like a monk, always up there with the sheep and that was his lifestyle. All summer long he rarely came off the mountain.