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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.

The Great Unknown

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I went for a walk with some of the ranch employees under the stars down a dirt road tonight. We were walking in the black of starlight. Coming back I realized how fortunate I was to be on a casual stroll near one of the seven natural wonders of the world, Grand Canyon. I mentioned some of my stories that I sometimes fear to tell, and my co-workers started to listen; then they grew uncomfortable as I started going into detail. So I remained quiet, and ponder the mysteries of the landscape on my own. So many folks fear the great unknown and turn to go the other way…

The darkness was black beyond sight. Without flashlights we became vulnerable as we stumbled down the dirt road in darkness. But the night was young, the stars, bold. The hills were silent. And then came yips and howls of ancient coyotes reminding me that we are not alone in this wasteland wilderness they call Whitmore Canyon. We continue down the road passed two or three cattle guards, down into Whitmore Wash, a main Grand Canyon tributary. The stars glisten and change colors rapidly in their twinkling. The Colorado roars off in the distance, down in the pre-Cambrian stomach of Mother Earth. The canyon wails an ancient and beautiful song with wind through the Junipers. She seems to say, “I’m Waiting.”

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.

 

Billy the Kid

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Tomorrow morning I leave to go back to Northern Arizona. I have to  say hello to Billy the Kid, our live-in road runner who isn’t afraid of people. We feed him live mice which he whips around and swallows. It’s back to visiting the Grand Canyon every day and getting paid for it. The nights out there are quite rare. Even in rural Utah, the stars don’t stick out as boldly as they do there. At night we have frogs croaking, desert pack rats moving about, and so many different insects making noise besides crickets. It almost feels like your stuck in a trance after the sun goes down. I can’t help but wander what I’ve been missing, even growing up in Southern Utah. The Strip is so different. It’s the 80 mile stretch that really changes the aura. Right before I go to bed in the bunk house, I pause to view the busy stars while listening to desert toads and hearing the wind shifting cottonwood branches.

The landscape around the ranch is covered with evidence of previous cultures and people who called this home. It’s so bone dry, you can only speculate as to how they survived such ruggedness and harshness. It’s cooling off a little; they say it isn’t as hot as it was the week before I came. I sure do love educating the folks that fly in from Vegas, they are so overwhelmed by the beauty that the ranch offers, especially in such close proximity to the Grand Canyon.

Billy the kid is the most interesting bird. He hangs out with us, literally. It’s hard to believe he’s even wild. He acts like he was raised and nurtured by humans. I may have to write some more in the journal tonight. Supper is calling…

Black Rock Wasteland

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Death glistens in
the desert like a mirage,
spectors in the diffused shade.
The sun adds a strange glow to the heat.
It has pulled them out into the open.
They spend dangerous amounts of time
away from their towns in the crevices.
The ghosted wind moves the Creosote
and I hear whisperings in the silence.
They hunt and gather in smeltering black seas.
Dust devils sweep by in dreams.

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.

My New Pal, Jesse James!

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I have somewhat a little announcement to make. It’s not a big deal to many, but for me, it was. I’ve been living a solitary life for the passed 4-5 years without much responsibility but myself to care for. Things have changed though, I finally went and found me a dog and named him Jesse, after Jesse James… He’s a blue heeler, english pointer mix. I’ve had him for over two weeks now, which puts him roughly at 8 weeks old. He was born on a farm on the outskirts of Provo, Utah, where I was staying to visit relatives. We’ve already bonded… I went over to Cal’s ranch store to purchase some puppy chow and vaccines. The times are a chang’n!

The Clouds Know

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Four days ago, after weeks of cloudless blue sky, I finally grew tired of the intense heat and asked the rain clouds to return to the land. It seems they heard me… Two days ago when I first saw the return of the clouds, I was so brilliantly happy, and relieved to see a possible end of the relentless bone dry days of summer. Then last night, the rain fell so hard on our ranch house, I couldn’t ignore the beautiful pounding raindrops splashing. I opened the sliding door and let the droplets try to invade the house and I chuckled. What a welcoming gift. So hopefully the monsoon weather stays around for the remainder of the summer.

It is the rain that brings strong memories of summer. It reminds me of the mysteries of life and why the unknown doesn’t always reveal it self to us. The unknown speaks loudly during an isolated active thunderstorm passing over the desert. As I’m traversing the Burr Trail, coming back from Lake Powell, The thunderclouds follow me all the way back to Boulder and Escalante. I camp out over by Bryce Canyon and listen to the rain and thunder claps in the middle of the night. The thunderclouds mix very well and supernaturally with the Colorado Plateau and its canyons. When you’re down in the confines of a deep canyon, a thunderclap echoes for miles and miles through boxy sandstone corridors, and it awakens the deepest appreciation for the quieter things in life.

The rain has returned to lovely Southern Utah, where the wind never sleeps, and the gnarly bushes and pines weave themselves into the endless sky. The clouds, they give shade, provide moisture, balance the heat, and make beautiful pictures for the landscape photographer. They give peace and tranquility in my corner of the world. The land I live in is timeless and cannot be squeezed into mere words. The clouds come as ancient visitors to the land. The rain, floods, and wind carve the timeless fabric of the land, into colorful badlands, vertical hoodoos, rocky gorges and canyons, and flowing muddy rivers like the Colorado.

So I’d thought to stop by the library and let you know my thankfulness…

Is Blogging Still the Thing?

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Man, is it just me or are things kind of dying down in the blogging world? Some blogs I visit haven’t been getting as much attention as they used to. I don’t get as many travelers stopping through here any more, yet I’ve won some awards for my writing, and even a scholarship for a poem. It’s kind of nice though, because this space has become like a personal journal once more. I’m starting to write more material that I wouldn’t have mentioned otherwise. I’ve learned my lesson of posting articles to the more traffic-chocked collaborative weblogs, realizing that I don’t like getting the negative attention as much as I would the positive. More often then not, I’m writing in my composition notebook then West Desert Journal, because I have retained the introverted side to what I do, all along. Attention is not really what is important. What is important is sharing your thoughts, feelings, experiences with the larger world. Some lone drifter comes through here out of the wood work, looking for the off-beat. It’s like meeting some dusty traveler out from the sticks, or the hitch-hiker on the lonesome desert highway. When the rest of the world is bogged up in some fad, we have our little e-mail conversations, and enjoy a fresh conversation like ice cold lemonade on a hot summer day. When it comes down to the nuts and bolts, I write for the sake of writing, for therapuetic reasons, and to inspire those that care to read. My goal was to keep West Desert Journal around as long as I’m alive, however it may one day get a name change. But for now, everything is good.

So I wander, is it just me, or is the popularity of blogging fading?

Looking Back

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It hits like a freight train, I get this uncanny urge to wander off into the mountains. It builds up like water against a weak dam. When I try to describe this to some family members, it angers them. When I was in high school, some of my friends thought I might be suicidal when I would venture into the wilderness, alone. On one occasion they went looking for me, because of this. At first I was surprised that they would consider this, but grateful that they cared enough to do so. Maybe people thought I was shy? In reality; I had a love affair with the lonesome wild. I’ve always had a wanderlust, a motivation to venture into the hills. My mother put a scrap book of poems, artwork, and stuff from my earlier years, up through my teens, and I profess the same things now, as I did then. Some poems I read were clear back to 1996 when I was 14. So this isn’t some passing phase.

My Samurai is working again. It is a bright lemon yellow, so if search and rescue ever have to come looking for me, it won’t be hard to find. I’ve been taking some more risky trails lately due to my 4×4 capability. Having this power comes with more responsibility. Most people think I’m crazy to go to places like the Mormon mountains, alone. The problem is I cannot persuade anybody to come along. So it is just me and nobody! My brother, Joe, is coming home from New York this July, so I hope he’ll accompany me on some of my storm cloud expeditions?

The real fact remains, that I prefer going into the wild alone with no-one accompanying me. It is a very different experience then when I’m with others. Things happen then. When I’m with people, I talk too much. When I’m alone, it’s just thoughts and emotions. It’s easier to tune into the unknown and ponder this beautiful world.

I’m tired of the same regurgitation. The mountains hear my plea and they are always listening. 😉

The Shadows of the Land

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i am leaving home
to join my soul, the wild.
leaving my loved-ones
for earth’s darkness.
the universe sings forever.
the desert calls.
i’ve been patient
in my planning.
no one really hears the mysteries,
or why the heavens weep.
The land’s transforming.
old ways dance in my heart.
my spirit is fiery.
the horizon waits.
i’ll find the place
where nothing ever sleeps.
tonight, i pack travel food
and journey into the desert.
the wind whipped wasteland is glistening.
my dreams haunt
bottomless basin mountains.
my heart is in the tower of stars.
the desert is calling.
in this darkening hour,
it’s a conjuring whisper.
i can’t be late for an appointment
with the shadows
of the land.

Yes, I believe in him

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I just moved from Saint George, Utah, back to Parowan – Which I heard means Evil Waters to the Southern Paiute. Anyways, there’s stories around here of a hairy man, especially over by Enterprise Utah. I avoid certain parts of that country when going in alone… There’s an extreme feeling of melencholy there, because of a massacre site known as the Mountain Meadows Massacre, where Mormons killed over 200 people that were passing through back in the 19th century.

My grandpa has a bigfoot story, and he says the creature moved around him taking strides longer then that of a human being, and it walked in about 2-3 circles before grandpa decided to jump on his 4-wheeler and leave. He never saw anything, though. This happened up in the Tuscher Mountains, above Beaver, Utah. He was out rock hounding and it was after dark. Most people look at me in an unserious way when I admit that I believe.

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

In Support of Immigration

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Why are Americans so paranoid about illegal immigration?

Americans need to stop and think about their own roots… I know of a T-shirt that reads; “Ask an American Indian what they think of illegal immigration!”

Think about the hypocrisy Americans have towards illegal immigration, when some of our own ancestors were illegal invaders to this continent. A lot of these “illegal” immigrants are indigenous people that were here long before Columbus set foot.

These Mexicans are risking their lives and dying out in the desert for what I have. That is an indicator helping me realize how privileged I am as an American.

Americans claim they worked hard for what they have, but how hard is life for those that have to survive down there in Mexico? I see these Mexican folks on a day-to-day basis, and they are not a threat, but are friends and neighbors. Americans need to chill out and find more optimism.

I’m tired of seeing the animosity against these folks; they are good people who contribute to America. We have always been a melting pot (or tossed salad) of many different ethnic groups, cultures and peoples. In many ways, this country was built by immigrants.

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…

Changes

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I am wondering through what beauty is left…

There is hardly a place to go
where man has not intruded.
Everything is changing.
I dream of what happened long ago.
What was Earth like then?
There is a divine power today,
not all is gone.

I believe that the sky
and the landscape will change.
People will have no part in it,
if they are not worthy.

Strange things come to me on the wind.
The sun in this quiet world is talking to me.
The Earth is helping me dream too.
The ravens are excited, and chatter
the news around in their little circles.
The desert is waking up,
and the ocean of silence is telling me.

So I have learned…

Voices of the Past

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“The mountains are the last things that are remaining old and undisturbed, but even now we are building things into them. I still can go in them, camp out and watch the stars; sleep and dream in the night by an old fire; and wonder some where else other than this realm of confusion. It truly is something simple, easy, and very righteous. It is being alone and hearing the voices of the past…”

I composed this in my late teens, around the time I turned eighteen and was graduating from high school. You could say I was pretty lucky to graduate, considering I sloughed a lot of high school. If it hadn’t been for my mom’s steady motivation, I would’ve might’ve been a drop out. When I turned sixteen I took advantage of having a driver’s license, I spent a lot of free time in the hills. Friends used to go with me a lot, but they soon dwindled and went their seperate ways. I’m passed tweny now and the years are starting to slip by… Still those places that I love are still there. They sing of the past. I am going to post pieces of writings from earlier in my life, and include them under their own category. You will see them filed under Time Warp… They are quite simple, maybe even repulsive… But that was me six years ago.

Heart of a Resistant Land

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It is gusty tonight,
as the fiery sun sinks into
the western mountains
Stars flood heavens deep
The ancient desert sings
The voice of the mountain
wails through the pinion
singing with the streams of
yellow grass and sage
The basin below
is cold and dusty

The mountain wind moves all night
The Coyotes run the midnight hills
yipping and howling
in the heart of this resistant land

Never to be taken!
Nothing is controlled
Nothing can rob the
soul of the wild

My Destiny

by

No person
will hinder me
from venturing
into shadow

creeping into the
deeper wild

where the
wind sings
ageless

further ‘n further
away from
my captors

…the wraiths
of civilization

No individual
will persuade me
from the call of
creation

forward,
into beauty
of earth and sky.

Storms of Summer, Finally Here

by

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.

Another Small Victory

by

Tonight, when I checked my email, I was pleasantly surprised! One of my poems; A Spring Desert Dawn won second place in a scholarship competition for Dixie State College. It’s actually the first time that I’ve ever attempted to submit something to a literary journal, except to a few online journals.. So this gives me a little hope as to whether I should pursue this little endeavor more. As a writer, I consider my work mostly free verse and experimental.

Pondering Further…

by

The wilderness has been my only true friend. Through every trial, it is always there, listening. There is no hostility in the wild. The earth is beautiful, and quiet. No noise, except the mourning dove coming into your camp on an early spring morn, and the river roaring continually, and it has been making noise long before humans. Why did God, Creator, make me human? That is the question I ponder sometime, Why did he make me human?

And So I Ponder…

by

Man, today, I really feel on edge, like things are not working out like they should? Somewhere along the line, I made a simple mistake, and now watch things unfold and move away from reach. Sometimes it is very hard to communicate with other humans, and I should just stop worrying for a while.

My parents came down to Saint George, and spent a few days down here with me. It is hard to see them go every time, because I want to be near my loved ones. My brother is coming back from New York, this August, and we are going to room together, somewhere in Cedar City. I’m missing family way too much lately. My vehicle is still broken down, and I’m working like mad to earn the money and keep bills paid. School is up in a few weeks, and I’m working at the Chevron in Saint George. Tonight, I’m training for the graveyard shift.

No matter how hard I try, chance has me chained by the ankles, once again. It can surely be a lonesome world at times, but when you lose your footing, you just have to keep moving, and loving life. That is the way I have often known it.

I’m uncertain; I worry about many things, even those small details. I have my doubts way too much. I wander how far down I allow my self-esteem to tread, on occasion, too? 😉

With Little Sleep…

by

Today, I came off an abnormally high plane of ecstasy that wasn’t expected. I’m still just extra happy today? First off, I went and purchased a new pair of shoes. My old ones were battered, and they have survived since I was in Flagstaff. Those good shoes met their end in the garbage can just outside of Target. Walking home, there were enormous spring thunderheads over Saint George with patches of dark blue sky. These new shoes are very comfortable and I had four hours of sleep, last night; maybe this is the recipe? Anyways, I’m getting closer to having my rig fixed, and then those hills are waiting.

This current theme was a little interesting, because it reminded me a lot of the desert teaming with all kinds of flowers in the spring and the first sounds of thunder. It was a simple and elegant layout, very minimal and very nice.

Phantoms of the Night

by

Way off in those mountains,
Phantoms are better left unknown.

The sun descends beneath the large red mesa,
The clouds soak the sunset glare.
It is silent, except for the thunderstorm.
A beautiful purple thunderhead expands,
Blue lightning ignites and echoes.

Hear the wind, and the rain falling
On the sandstone mesa. Smell the sage.

In the foothills, the wind whips the juniper jungle.
There is a feast; an unearthly celebration going on.
They are busy, tonight, somewhere in those hills.
They dance and shift in dark caves.
In cobweb networks they sing.

Sun in a Quiet World

by

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.

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