Reflections

All postings that deal with introspection which may include poetry and prose

Speaking of This Beauty

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There are so many good things in life like the sunset that bathes the sandstone mittens of Monument Valley, Arizona, or the soft whistle of a meadow lark on the high desert of Southern Utah. The clouds are constantly changing while the rock filled landscapes change slowly beyond our reality in geological time. It would be a once-in-a-lifetimes experience to witness a natural rock slide from the side of a granite mountain, or weathering mesa. These deserts of the Southwest endure the hottest summers and most frigid winters, but their surfaces soak in the deepest evening sunlight of every sunset, and warmth of every sunrise. It makes the landscapes of the Southwest part of the supernatural realm. It is where one can find peace between Father Sky and Mother Earth.

It is a constant search to learn about the native history and stories of the Southwest. I am not indigenous, but have an strong desire to know the truth and history of the land of my birth. It is important to understand the people that came long before me or my ancestors. There is this knowledge unknown to most common folk. Another desire is to come to understand the mysteries of the land and find affinity with the unknown. History goes beyond the text book, deeper then our modern life.

There is this tree that I know and I’m working very hard to find the roots. When I was younger, I discovered a beauty that I can never put down. It is with me every day, guiding me slowly, but carefully. The Creator is watching out for me. It’s all about this beauty, learning and finding ways to show respect.

On the Way to Tuba City, AZ

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It was cool enough this morning, but the sun is now cooking the desert alive and I’m sweating pretty badly. Venturing across Navajoland, I come across the aged shell of an abandoned gas station bathed in graffiti. One mural is two large eagle feathers tide together, with the phrase, STILL HERE, sprayed in red paint below. On the other side K-Town is written, slang for Kayenta, a town close to the east. The wind is cutting through the power lines along the highway and the monster cottonwood creaks. There’s a bunch of dogs barking from a nearby residence while an old Navajo drags a pallet on a chain behind his 77 Chevy, grading the dirt road back to the house.

Traveling and Moving Around

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I’ve been moving around the Southwest far from home. The first journey was a 1,600 mile loop around Arizona passing Hoover Dam, traveling along Route 66, down through Prescott, and as far south as Tucson. This is around the time my brother was getting married to a girl from Mesa, Arizona.

On the ancient Colorado, I had the opportunity to be Swamper for Arizona River Runners for one trip and worked my tail off. That is because one of the gals that was susposed to go had a medical condition at the last moment. So this oppurtunity was pretty rare and was told that getting a paid position on the river in my situation was like winning a contest. So I was able to skip the volunteer (work-your-way) position somewhat. My whole life I’ve been visiting Grand Canyon, but never had the chance of going down the river. Folks down there get a little trippy; they’re the whiskey-vodka drinking crowd, but I enjoyed the company. Sleeping on the pontoon every night, the stars were incredible. The river’s current rushed just feet from my head and it plays out in dreams and visions.

After the river, I traveled around Navajo land, going over to Shiprock, up to Blanding, down to a Tuba City flea market, and stayed in Monument Valley for two days. I went to several look out points above the Goosenecks of the San Juan River, like Muley Point. My whole idea was to venture up to Canyon Lands, but was missing Navajoland, so I returned to Monument Valley.

I’m back home in Cedar City, but already anticipating another road trip; maybe something more than that?

Note: Edited June 26th to add a few more details.

Last Day at Bar 10, Tomorrow

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Well it’s my last two days at the ranch, ten miles from Grand Canyon. Where my path goes from here, is unknown. Bruce at Arizona River Runners is giving me the chance to run the Colorado this summer. It looks like a dream coming true, finally! After an experience on the river, I’ll have enough material to stay busy writing for a while. Tomorrow is the last day for me, so I’ll make it the best one of them all.

Today, the desert was a furnace. The mens bunkhouse felt like a greenhouse in Death Valley. There’s honey bees and bumble bees all over the place. The tree in front of the Bar 10 Lodge is flowering and sounded like electricity with all the bees.

Everything seems to be flowering; the cliffrose, Hedgehog Cactus, the prickly pear with yellow or pink flowers, and dozens of other shrubs and cacti. The canyon is coming alive. Foot-long dragon-like lizards are basking in the sun, and running around on the men’s bunkhouse. The Great Basin Spade Footed toad has made himself known scaring some of the guests at night… they think there’s a yanni lurking nearby; after hearing a few stories of course!

Life is grand. I’m here at the ranch alone, again. It’s times like these that I find a chance to write a little in my journal. Things are working out just fine. I shot my Uberti 357 at some rocks down in the wash tonight, while listening to the crickets and wind. The dusk set in, and the shadows of Whitmore Canyon grew long.

All is quiet as I head to bed, ready for the final day…

Bad News

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Every river company I have spoken with have no volunteer work available for folks like me. Yet, river guides like Tom Vail are telling me that I must go down the river 6-10 times as a volunteer before I can be considered for any real job on the river. Maybe I’ll go down the Colorado like good old Buzz Holmstrom; a man with real courage, who by himself, traversed the entire length of the Grand Canyon. It’s larger then life and I am forced to dream. I’m tired of dreaming, I want a piece of the action, thrill, and beauty. Give me constant adventure, that’s all I crave on this crazy planet. The beauty of the hills is all that makes any sense. I’m sick of going everywhere else. I’m an explorer always feeling restless. If I don’t find some way to break the tension, I swear I’m going to go do something funny like attempt a solo river trip!

Shouting to River Runners

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Peace is in the canyon in clouds passing over massive sandstone and limestone ledges. All is quiet, far from city noise. The deep waters of the Rio Colorado fill the inner gorge as ravens plane the blue sky catching thermals of late winter air. Cloud and cliff shadows mix. In the next few hours private river runners will come around the bend and reach mile marker 187. We will shout hello to them and wave frantically. They’ll raise their oars and shout back, then continue their fourteen day journey to the bottom of the canyon to Lake Mead. I love Listening to the river rapids and feel lucky in this subliminal moment. The canyon never grows old or familiar. Being here every day has been one of my greatest blessings.

Surviving In a World of Suffering

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I know what hides from most human beings and its realm is the vast wilderness. Humans have been separating themselves from the experiences of their ancestors. Most of them no longer retain even a hint of their original life ways. We have all lost track of why we are on this planet, which is our mother. Now, we have become so entangled by our own culture of mass consumption. We have forgotten our responsibility to the earth, and our relationship with the rest of creation. We have been cutting off this connection for very long time now, for hundreds of years, which will lead to grave consequences in the end. We cannot conquer nature, we only can subdue it for a short time, but no matter what we try to conquer and destroy, we are only doing it to ourselves. It will lead our own demise. Maybe there will be a few that find solace in the next life, or a passage to escape this dreadful event. I’m not trying to just talk here, I feel this way deep down. This isn’t a a prediction; its common sense. We are developing massive weapons that are only meant to destroy, kill, and exterminate. They leave wounds that cannot be healed. We are digging into sacred mountains, into holy places, and putting our feet where they don’t belong. This type of abuse cannot go on forever.

It is peaceful to work in the Grand Canyon, to be cut-off from the rest of the world in a place where I don’t have to hear bad news, of people dying over in Iraq, of terrible storms and tempests, of disease and terrorism. In a way, I am escaping those problems. I am running away from them. Most of us feel pretty cut-off and insignificant in a world that billions of people inhabit. It is an enormous and infinite place, and I’m living in it for only a very short while.

The mountains, the desert, the vastness of the wilderness quenches this awful loneliness. For me, Life is too short and fragile to waste doing trivial things other then what I love. Maybe it is selfish to exist in a world where so much suffering and misery exists, when I choose to dwell in hills of eternal rest, where time has no meaning. I’m not necessarily ignoring the pain and suffering, I am trying to escape it. A lot of us are survivors, just waiting for some type of end to draw near. We wait, and enjoy life the best way we know how.

To me, the most important things in this world are life, land, family, and my relationship to creation. The Grand Canyon has given me so much beauty. There’s nothing more powerful then standing on the edge of a massive abyss of canyons and plateaus that seem to swallow up everything else. When it’s one human being standing on the edge of eternity, you start to listen to the rest of the universe. In this realm, there is no pain and suffering. Just intense peace and solitude.

There are things that cannot be explained, hiding in the deepest wilds. Go to those places and experience them as often as possible. The more you venture into the unknown, the more experiences you will have. You’ll start to understand what happened long ago. There was a time when life was much more simple, unsophisticated, and there wasn’t so much suffering. There are cultures that existed for thousands of years that withstood the test of time, that outlived western civilization, and such. Human beings are complex, but if we weren’t so confused, life would be easier for all of us.

So I try to untangle myself. I watch the humming bird, the road runner, and the rattle snake, and I realize their importance in the desert. These creatures also seem very happy. It’s worthwhile to see how they live and survive out there. Each animal in the Grand Canyon has its own way of surviving and finding peace in such a wasteland. Most of the year, water is nearly non existent. the Grand Canyon averages about eight inches of rainfall a year. Yet a large variety of plant and animal life has managed to thrive. This is what I call happiness. Each and every creature plays a part in this. There are many, many relationships between many organisms. One could learn a lot from just mimicking certain habits and survival patterns of these beings. It’s all in an area, where time doesn’t exist, where the sun is constantly shining in a quiet existence. It is a place where the wind howls and moans and continues to carve the painted wastelands and sandstone canyons of the Grand Canyon. It will still be there, long after the period of humans.

Far from Civilization

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Last week the boss gave me a chance to go out alone on a quad, so I packed some food, water, and a camera and left to explore some of the real remote parts of the Grand Canyon. I stopped and looked out over Parashant Canyon, went up to Whitmore Point, and explored countless ranch roads. There is nothing like feeling solitude in the most isolated pockets of Grand Canyon. You don’t feel the same when others are with you. The beauty and aloneness is unrivaled. I spent the majority of time scouting cliff edges, deep ravines, and spiraling canyons. Man I’m going places that even river guides never see. Now I am back in town and there’s nothing to do but daydream of the quiet beauty. I know what I want to do for the rest of my life, live peacfully, far from town.

Fact is Stranger then Fiction

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I am always reminding myself that fact is stranger then fiction, it gives me the ability to have faith in the unbelievable. It is not hard to feel the power of this world, but the truth isn’t always in reach. There is a strong force running through my veins to seek the unknown. I have the oppurtunity to experience the world, by the grace of God, and seek infinite truth. Life itself is a miracle and a mystery. The quote below is from a movie titled; Second Hand Lions. It carries a lot of weight in my book. Truth is always within reach if you’re willing to accept the things which cannot always be seen…

“Hub: Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good; that honor, courage, and virtue mean everything; that power and money, money and power mean nothing; that good always triumphs over evil; and I want you to remember this, that love… true love never dies. You remember that, boy. You remember that. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. You see, a man should believe in those things, because those are the things worth believing in.”

Looking for Pollywogs

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Tonight’s an evening at the ranch that becomes eerie. We left the lodge late in the afternoon to catch spade-footed pollywogs at a nearby pond. We started telling stories about shapeshifters, if you know what I mean? It’s not easy sleeping when you dwell on such things. Crickets and frogs start sounding louder. Every little movement, voice, drop of water, becomes an atmospheric sound scape. The night is surreal. I’m sleeping a lone out in the bunk house; no crew are staying over. Just the boss, his wife, and me. As we strolled into the ranch after dark, all the lights were off. Everything was pitch black beneath the roaring sea of stars. That midnight sky was bright. The generator isn’t on. My boss has gone to bed. I’m writing and pondering what lurks out in there the night. I’m hearing things. It’s those desert mice scurrying through the Sheetrock walls of the lodge. There’s nostalgic cowboy music playing in the kitchen; the static of this altered reality burns away into the latter hours. My mind is sifting through and regurgitating the same old horrors of unknown things like monsters in bottomless canyons, or the rushing waters of the sandy Colorado crashing down the inner gorge, not far away. The beauty of the Grand Canyon is really satisfying my spirit. I love isolated wastelands, twisted junipers, telling stories around the campfire; listening to the fire crackle, snap, hum. Running the river is a day dream. My life here is but a moment of bliss. I can imagine floating passed dark cliff shadows. Today, I loaded alfalfa, dug holes for fence posts, and ventured into side canyons of Whitmore Wash.

One Expensive Mistake

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It is exhilarating to live far from the fenced confines of the “sophisticated’ modern world. The Grand Canyon is a mystery. It is far from the reality of the miserable suit and tie people. This morning I flew into the canyon by chopper, with a pilot named Rahn. We were supposed to pick up river runners on the Colorado. They never showed up. We sat down there for an hour and a half, visiting, waiting, talking about religion, life, and our different views on the existance of God. We decided to fly up the river to see if there were any rafts headed our way. It turns out the river runners are coming tomorrow, on Saturday. This turned out to be an expensive mistake, but I don’t regret flying 150 m.p.h. over the north rim, into the gorge, and out like a hell-bat. It was windy and the helicopter was bouncing all the way back to the ranch.

The Colorado River was sure boiling with a silence as if it wanted to drown another human being in it’s current. So many mysteries occur in the canyon and it’s tributaries. Every year a freak accident occurs or someone goes missing, never to be found. Today at the ranch, it was abnormally quiet. The air was cool, a first sign that fall is coming.

We tried to feed a pet-shop mouse to some rattlers we have in captivity, but they didn’t bother it. When we catch native mice in the sticky traps and feed them to the snakes, they go berserk. Our fellow road runner, Billy, eats live varments right out the palm of your hand, now.  Never did I suspect these birds to be so intelligent. He comes into the lodge, and the men’s bunk house to visit with folks.

The nights are getting cold. Time to start wearing the jacket. This afternoon, all the employees left for the weekend. It’s just me and another guy named John who stays here occasionally. He’s watching an old movie in the other room, while I write this. The wind is blowing outside. The power we consume comes from two solar panels nearby.

Tonight, I am going to dream of boating down the Colorado among great cliffs of ancient strata, and daring fifteen foot rapids. Tomorrow morning I’ll be ready for another helicopter ride to the river…

Living in Isolation

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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.

 

Heart of the Great Basin

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The stars stand bold against trees. The fire is dancing. The smoke drifts in my direction and soaks into my skin. This is a quiet moment in the Great Basin; where the little people roam the night. These individuals are knee tall. They move through the juniper mountains like ants. I can hear their whisperings, as they work in busy networks… preparing for what may come this way, someday… The thunder storms of summer claim these valleys and the thunderheads are in control. Bolts of lightning draw near, and slam the earth. At night the sky seems to clear, but the storms are like power houses, and linger late into the night.

You have to be careful of the little people. They are there. As I search up winding canyons, what surprises may be waiting? This is the middle of nowhere, which is a place for the remote few of us that desire such isolation. The wasteland may not seem like much to a lot of people, but they are afraid of it, and they hide in great cities. But when I visit their cities, I feel really lonely. When I journey out into the wild, it feels like I’m going home every time.

Going down dirt roads, my car eats the gravel. The dust comes in through the windows. I breathe the dirt road into my lungs, and the dust collects in the jungle of my scalp. Sage Brush, tall as trees, grows along the road and I love the smell of sage after a fresh cloud burst. Sometimes, when I’m driving across basin valleys late at night, I imagine those little people roaming around in the eternal hills. I cannot stop thinking about the mysteries of the rolling, Juniper-covered hills.

In my desert camp, I watch the fading sunset burn the low rising ridges and basin hills. Crowded Junipers greet the setting sun. Clouds ignite in orange, pink, red, and maroon, then purple. All colors silently fade without a noise, as the crickets serenade. Coyotes howl in the distance; thunder sounds somewhere far, far away. The stars come out like bold specks against the dark earth. It is not an evil dark, but a pure black darkness that haunts my imagination. It has provided many sleepless dreams.

Working on the Arizona Strip

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My new life began on the Arizona Strip about a week and a half ago. I’m working 8-9 miles from the inner gorge of the Grand Canyon at Bar10 ranch. The Arizona Strip is one of the most isolated places in the United States, and it has been called the Tibet of North America, because it is one of the most uninhabited places by human population. The problem lays in the fact there is no water on the strip except for a few springs here and there. The Heatons own this ranch, which spans about 250,000 acres large. They have a spring that they pipe water to the ranch from, which is about six miles away. They have about 1,000 head of mother cows that come to the Bar10 in the winter, but during the summer they are at higher elevations. Where I work is about 4,000 above elevation. My job entails being a trail guide. Bar10 ranch has an airstrip that brings tourists in from Las Vegas to see the Grand Canyon. The Heatons also saw the opportunity to pick up river runners who didn’t wish to journey the whole length of the Colorado (through the Grand Canyon) and on to Lake Meade. We pick them up by helicopter. In the old days, those that wanted to visit the Bar10 had to pack everything out by mule. I’m working as a basic guide giving ATV and Ranger Tours, plus educating guests about the Arizona Strip.

So it is a great way to settle down for a while. I’m 80 miles from the nearest telephone pole or oiled road. They have satellite internet out here, so I will be able to post stuff when the chance arises. I work from dawn til dusk… There’s no personal time it seems. When we aren’t giving tours, fixing meals, or entertaining guests, we’re digging ditches, holes, mending fences, etc. It’s a great job though. I live out here five days a week, and spend weekends back in Southern Utah. There’s just so much going on here, that I probably won’t get around to mentioning many details. It’s incredible to see the Grand Canyon every day, and live in such close proximity. I figure by the time this job ends in April, I will have some good experience for something even better down the road.

I’m thinking of some type of job in Law Enforcement through an agency like the National Park Service, or the BLM. I’ll get into certain details later down the road as to why I am pondering this. One reason is, I would like to protect archeological and historical sites from those who would seek to exploit them, or destroy them. I’m tired of seeing these sites and sacred places being jeopardized on a daily basis. I’m not one that wants to dictate things, but I want in some way to protect these areas just because they are so precious, priceless, sacred to so many indigenous and non-indigenous folks, and because they are simply irreplaceable.

So I have great hope for what my future holds…

The Landscape and its History

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That subliminal quiet is stirred only by ancient winds. The rocks are timeless, squared away to outlast the human element. Passing through Juniper I observe enormous balloon clouds hovering over the tips of the mountains. Looking out across the valley below, I see the rust stained foothills where one of Southwestern Utah’s largest petroglyph sites lay, a place known as the Parowan Gap. Some say the ageless writing spans 12,000 years ago in age. I’ve heard that the Paiutes say that they were written by the Creator. Others say they were inscribed by tribes coming from the far east on their trade routes. The gap is a strange and respected place that I often find immense silence.

Moving up the steep grade of the hill into a flat opening in the Junipers, I see arrowhead chippings scattered everywhere. I’ve learned to leave the arrowheads and chippings alone, not because it is against federal law to gather them, but out of a respect I have for certain cultures around here. There’s these old fire pits, dozens of them. In some places fire pit is built on top of fire pit in the sediment, sometimes overlapping. There they are, flintknapping, cooking, grinding corn, visiting, telling jokes, telling stories around the campfire for centuries.

The arrival of the Mormons came not too long ago, about 150 years ago they entered the Parowan valley to stay. The Spanish came 200-400 years ago. The Old Spanish Trail runs through the Parowan Valley, up passed Summit, Utah. The history of these settlers, intruders, invaders is so recent in the history of the Southwest. Their presence is barely a glitch on the radar screen of America’s timespan. What happened in this valley 2,000 years ago, when folks were gathering seeds and killing the cottontails just before the winter snows? Some things will have been forgotten in these so-called modern times, when human beings are so busy they forget to listen to that ancient wind, and they become encased in a workaholic lifestyle in a tall skyscraper in Chicago or New York. Bring a New Yorker out to Southern Utah and the isolation would scare the hell out of them. Those tough street-smart gangsters from L.A. would be a cinch to track and intimidate if they were wandering through these canyons.

This land is beautiful. So much of it’s history remains untold, hidden, and the truth lays out there in the isolation and desolation. The gnarly branch of an old Bristlecone can tell many stories. If I walk passed one of these 3,000 year old trees, chances are, many humans crossed the same path to greet the tree, long before Columbus was born. This history resonates up from soil underneath all the temperary structures, buildings, roads, and cities built by this civilization, America. The truth tells the history, not the myths of America’s founding fathers, or the temporary monuments erected to honor certain persons or individuals.

I was born in Utah. I don’t want to be so naïve and ignorant of the landscape and its history. For example, Mount Rushmore is sacred to Americans, because it honors certain presidents that added providence to America’s adolescence. But I leaned that the entire area around Mount Rushmore is very significant and sacred to the Lakota people, and the sculpturing is looked upon by some to be a desecration of a holy site. All of the Black Hills are sacred to the Lokota.

What history is to be learned about Southern Utah’s past? How many undocumented events took place where I live? Before the local Wal-mart was constructed in Cedar City, I remember all the arrowheads, and bits of pottery that were laying around where that superstore now stands! Does anyone care about what happened there in that area? What about all the endangered Petroglpyphs near this big-box superstore and inside the city limits of Cedar City? As I hike the ageless hills and wander spacious valleys of the Great Basin, it really sparks an interest in me to know the truth, and to seek it. I can only ponder most of the time when I stumble across the ruins of Puebloan ancestors, the rock writings, or when climbing the storied canyons of the Colorado Plateau, deep into the beauty of Mother Earth. I realize just how fortunate I am for the opportunity to explore this place; to feel the vastness of the solitude and isolation. This is wilderness in the truest sense, full of human history, habitation, and legend. The stark blue sky and the stony vegetated earth tell the stories of what happened long ago.

This is what peace is for me. I hope the desire to seek answers and truth never fades.

Galactic blue clouds
Fill the turquoise firmament
Deep from within the belly of Mother Earth
The stories unfold.
The winds are singing –
moving the rain and thunder.
The land is so beautiful.
May it always remain beautiful.
A resistant land it is.

Dreaming of the Afterlife

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A boy sat outside the village
looking at the grave yard at the mesa’s edge.
“What ever happened to the dead?” he pondered.
“Are they living some where else far away?”

Skeletons walking around after
the day turns to night
inspires the boy to dream of
the darkness and deepness of rivers.

“Are the dead living somewhere else?”
Out on the mesa edge he prays every morning.
He prays, waiting for the sun to come up;
to come over and talk to him.

Every night, he dreams of the
medicine that will make him dead.
He wants to go see the corpse house. Please come.
The sound is making him old.
His dream for the crimson light is fading.

“Poem inspired from a Hopi story.”

The Early Morning

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dark rain clouds
wander the blue sky
making the dream come
alive a vision of the
land singing

Then cries the raven
from its hollow in the
knarled tree
that twists its branches
into the ancient wind

Thunder echoes way across
the desert yonder
farther than
the eyes can see

The black rock
was the blood of
that ancient beast
that was slain so
long ago

the locust begin buzzing
and an eagle heralds the dawn
when that sun peaks
up over the rim of mountains
the clouds catch
pink-red rays

The old man pulls up his
trousers because
of no suspenders. He laughs
out with his diabetic belly
and sings of how he has
“Noassatall disease”

The grand kids pile out of
the truck, hollering and
shouting as grandpa sticks
his false teeth back in

while heavens above are glistening
and the happy meadow lark sings of
a beautiful new day

Elbow Canyon Excursion

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the Hard blue sky on a hot day tires me, under the sweltering bright fire of the sun. I’ve been on this dirt trail for hours inside a cab that lacks basic air conditioning. I started my journey crawling slowly through a valley of creosote southeast of Littlefield, Arizona. It is about 1000 feet above sea level. I was heading towards the mountains that border the western flank of high desert known as the Arizona Strip country.

I approach Elbow Canyon, which is one of the rockiest roads I have taken this rig on; jagged and short switchbacks lead all the way to the top of the canyon. The vehicle bounces back and forth in 4 wheel drive as I steadily climb the steep grade. When I get to the top, I look back into bottomless hole that leads to the valley below.

I’m heading to Toroweap. I could’ve taken the easy-quick route, but I went sixty or seventy miles off the main road. My ventures are not always for fun or recreation, but to escape from wretched daily life and I’m in no hurry to dive into these places with a swift return to town. This is personal and I am in no rush… I love the beauty of Mother Earth… Never do I take beauty for granted.

Beads of sweat gather on my forehead, the sun smolders the interior, but I love it. I park under a canopy of Junipers in a Juniper Jungle, and head to a place they call Sullivan’s Canyon. This is a wicked canyon that dives into pre-Cambrian rocks of the Virgin River Gorge. I spend the rest of my day down in there, where strange things lurk. Large and spectacular stands of Manzanita grow like ancient Bristlecone. There was something following me, I heard it nearby, but refused to react in fear. Whatever it may have been, it did not molest…

All is quiet… Nothing else really matters…

My future children may want to give me a proper burial, but I will not approve of it. If they love me, they will let the buzzards feed off my remnants… Or at least bury me somewhere in the remoteness of the Strip…

Storms of Summer, Finally Here

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The drumming rain surrounds the little adobe this summer eve. In the morning the rising sun soaks the clouds in radiant light. The sun finally breaks from shadow, and dark golden light warms the window. Just before everything awakens, I take a morning stroll smelling the wet sage and creosote. The red rock landscape is burning fire red in morning twilight. Thunderclouds hug the mountains in the distance.

All these mourning doves have made their encampment around my quarters, enclosed by a few cottonwood. Around 8 or 9 P.M. a mourning dove flies into the door hatch and pokes its feathery head in. Another one follows, and they stay there for a while making their noise. Those pleasant birds are very charming to hear.

Tonight the constant rain awakens sensations of primordial desert. As the rain taps the roof, I think of the dawn and the dusk, and how thunderstorms travel the Colorado Plateau, always seeming to follow the sun into the west.

Sun in a Quiet World

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I travel far from the city. I leave the colony. I am moving away from this community of people. They all struggle as I do. I am apart of them in their world. They are wired like me. There’s no escaping the machine. Yet, every trip away from the colony becomes one little victory over the machine.

If you head to the mountains, alone, and stay out there long enough, it starts to change you. I’ve gone into the wild enough that I have many stories and experiences to share with my children, and grand children, if I am still around. There are things that busy city dwellers will never understand. They cannot hear it, or see it, because it is withdrawn to the shadiest and most secluded areas of the planet.

Where I go, there are no others except the sparse few that share the relatedness. On occasion I have passed them by and give them a finger wave from the steering wheel, or a shout from the top of a ridge. The isolation communicates with us. We know who we are. Gather round, sheep herder, hermit, recluse, hobo, you are welcome here. We are learning each others’ thoughts and dreams.

I am fighting the machine, because it does not have control of my life. I am free, truly free. Even the coyotes and ravens are dependent; they eat the rabbits killed along the road. Like them, I adapt and use the tools that benefit my survival. But I am sovereign from the machine, it doesn’t infiltrate my mind. I am a different from those of the popular culture. My existence is real; I am not like my captors.

1987 Suzuki Samurai

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I’ve done two crazy things in one month. I traded a DSLR while bartering for a 4×4 and sold my notebook for off-road tires. So it’s back to the library when I need to update. For a desert dweller it is justified. The 1987 Suzuki Samurai is a great 4×4. My cousin says it goes places that his Jeep cannot because it’s compact. It ain’t no speed demon, it tops about 65 miles an hour, 70 on a lucky day. It does have a new engine. There are places that I have visited that were once inaccessible, I had missed out on life with no way explore those Jeep trails.
Take a look at this.

Something at Indian Peak

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Whatever it was it was moving through the trees in our direction. All the small pinion saplings had been stripped from their tips. Maybe this is what engaged our imaginations? But the sound of snapping dead wood and breaking branches grew steadily. Perhaps it was coming from the limestone caves on the mountain above? The first time my cousin heard the comotion he came stumbling over the top of the hill asking me if I had heard it. Then we both froze in silence and I shouted in the direction of the noise. Both of us bolted back down to the Jeep in the wash below the hill. We didn;t hesitate. This was somewhere near Indian Peak, west of Milford, Utah about two weeks ago. We want to go back out there and explore those caves. My guess is what stripped the trees could’ve been a porcupine or mule deer? Maybe the large movement was a Bear? The snow was falling and was dense that day. Towards the evening the weather cleared a bit. We keep diving deeper and deeper where humans shouldn’t go, where teeth and shadows lurk. That day we had cut into fresh powder. The 4×4 trail we’d traversed hadn’t seen any tracks in months. We were the first ones in that area in a long time. I ponder what is living out there? I would’ve stood my ground had I owned .357; I never take unnecessary risks. I was a coward!

The Unknown River

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I go to a secret place, alonem amd sit on a ledge above the canyon labrynth choked with brush. The numerous finger canyons remain unknown to most. In the summer, the heat soars into the triple digits. Winter is the best time venture in this area, because the Mojave Rattlers hibernate. It is rich with human prehistory. I listen for those that once lived here, and died here. I feel the warmth of the canyon. It is incredible. It starts to get late in the evening, the sun fades. The skeletal mysteries of the night begin to creep. I listen carefully for the noise of the unknown river, it is flowing tonight, I should maybe go to it.

Ravens on the Arizona Strip

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An Amazing world, this little earth
strange and magnificent.
We were headed to Toroweap
Thousands of ravens planed the sky
against orange and yellow clouds.
They followed us.
Timeless things await.
So, how do humans stew
over the most simple things,
such as daily life in a town?
I refuse to assimilate.
The raven windows the harsh beauty.
Arizona Strip, unmolested
enjoyed by few ranches, modern homesteads.
She still sings the old way.
Vivid dreams of Pinion ignite.
Simply colorful and intriging.
Virmillion Cliffs radiate.
Cold wind howls in the pines.
Smell fresh winter rain.
We passed under raging cloudbursts,
dark cloud shadows.
The road was thick mud-
in the arms of that isolated high desert.
Such brilliance creates laughter in my soul.
Those graceful ravens were soaring
beneath luminous clouds in evening mist.
Their silhouettes were abstract.
Keepers of the Spirit World.

The Desert Calls

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His pillow is an ancient cottonwood. Wind pushes gigantic branches. He loves the twisted tree. His bare feet sift cold yellow sand. The clumps of grass push against his back. The ground is wet and moist from a previous storm. The boy sleeps to the constant summer wind and the singing creek near the reeds.. Just around the corner, big plateaus devour the landscape. He dreams of them. The cottonwood knows and sees everything.

Listen to the wind as it travels through the canyons.

He’s standing on the top of a butte looking out across Canyon Country. In the distance a thunderstorm is on the rise. The lightning calls. The earth is dark. He doesn’t fear the darkness of the night. The Unknown is waiting. Over the endless expanse, the Creator is waiting. He walks across the sky, travels with the rain clouds. Hear the wind singing.

In isolation and safety, he moves through shadows further away from the daylight into the peaceful night. In the day, he dreams of sandstone, red muddy water, and the ancient cottonwood.

The Unknown walks with him, teaching him, and guiding him.

My Job is Over

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Bad news. It turns out that I won’t be working at the gift shop. The owner hires me, only to have second thoughts and tells me that he can’t afford to hire another employee. So tonight I was a little depressed feeling bad, because I was actually anticipating this job and would’ve enjoyed it. Cookies like me are tough, they never give up! Life is unpredictable. Working there can remain a good memory, but I am not going to let it sadden me any further.

The passed week I’ve been missing Flagstaff. Ed Little’s photos of the Peaks are a reminder! I might journey down there this January and go shoot some photos. Hopefully I can find a way to get into some four wheel drive before long and I will be long gone from civilization with all the spare time that I can muster. I’m going to start badgering those guys over at the BLM and see if they have anything to offer; if I have a snowball’s chance in hell! I might have a job later in the Spring working for the BAR 10 ranch down on the Arizona Strip.

Man, I am really craving isolation right now, not because of anything. It’s been this way for a while. I don’t really care what people have to say either. I am happy to have the opportunity to escape when needed. The wilderness is at my front porch every day. When the sun goes down, I like to watch the red rock light up like the furnace coal.

If there was a vortex that could send me back three thousand years I’d probably step back and hesitate for a moment and then jump through. Sometimes I wander why Creator put me in this time, in this reality. I’ve been waiting far too long for my ship to come in. Maybe some people have to swim out a little ways?

Travelers

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Going back in time,
the soft clouds rewind quickly
to those passed centuries.
The sky is glowing
and the power is sweet.
Here they come,
people moving across the land,
carrying their babes,
moving to lower ground
for the winter.
The sky is always turquoise blue,
and the junipers grow wild.
They travel passed the red cliffs
and head into the Black Ridge country
on their way to the land of the whipping sands.

Soft and vivid dream
quiet like the groves of cottonwood grandpas
swaying in the steady wind.
The wind pushes the billowing clouds
through traveling sky.
Locusts buzz.

Hear the whispers.
The passed is alive
in the dreamer’s dimension.
Listen to the faded voices of the passed.
The rocks still speak.
The sacred images tell stories.
Go to the pictures on the rocks
they have the power.
Soft spoken meadow lark sings.
Those cottonwoods are angels
translucent rain falls on their branches.
The old ones revisit the land
because they are not forgotten.
They are remembered.
Peace. Sweet intelligent peace.
In a living dream, the old ones speak.

A Beautiful Reminder

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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!

An End to the Occupation

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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…

Nate the Lonesome Critter

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I may be working in a tourist trap of a turquoise outlet pretty soon. The big cheese came closer to hiring me today. It is a decent atmosphere to work in. Chimes ring, native flute music plays in the background, and the roaring traffic of Saint George looms outside. I’m talking to the manager, just getting to know him one on one. I spoke with one of the fellow employees too. It turns out that she likes to rock-hound a lot. Neat! Anyways, I’ll see what happens. This will definitely beat the Lowe’s job I had before, where they were having me load boxes in the back warehouse every shift. They had hired me as a sales associate, but that wasn’t the case. In the end they were only giving me ten hours a week, max.

I feel like my life is passing me by. Yesterday I was eighteen, now I’m twenty-four. How did it happen so quick? Why am I madly in love with the desert? I love those shrub covered wastelands!

My uncle just went through a bitter divorce, and his wife hauled his children off to California, and so he’s trying to start over again. You would think I’d be grateful NOT to be married, but that isn’t the case. I’ve seen how lonely and destitute he has become without his family. How am I able to cope with being alone without a beautiful girl and family in my life? If any girl would ever have me, what would I do? Am I scared of commitment, or am I scared that I may hurt someone else because of my own selfishness? What girl is going to go off into the boonies with me and spend a lot of time doing this? Is there anyone more obsessed than I am? I’d hope they’d be the type waking me up before dawn, telling me to get my camping and hiking gear ready for a trip.

So I am lonesome, but not enough to get hitched anytime soon. I’m obsessed with the rugged wild, those places place off of the black top highways. Right now, I crave the Creosote covered stretches of the Arizona Strip. I would kill to have a park ranger, or BLM job, working in a god-forsaken wilderness. I’d move to Cliff Dwelling, Arizona, Population: 12! There’s nothing stopping me but my current situation, my reality. This is such a heartache to endure. Every day that I grow older, I see my life passing me. Every day that I am not in my Canyon Country is one day less that I have to be apart of it.

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