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My Shipwrecked 4×4

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There’s something a lot worse than a throw-out bearing going out on my 1987 Suzuki. I went a had a shop look over my rig today, and it turns out my worst fears came tp light. The manual transmission needs replacement, on top of an new clutch, and throw-out bearing. This is stressful, because I’m not going anywhere until this is taken care of. So I am short on funds, and it’s time to get creative. A used transmission is going to cost around $200-450 dollars, and the total cost of repair is going to be $600-1000 dolalrs. When buying a used vehicle, this comes with the territory. I just wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon. Damn!

Cottonwood Grandpa

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There is an old cottonwood, burned by lightning; it has survived longer then most. It’s stands by a muddy river that passes through sedimentary gorges, red plateaus. The river and wind have been moving long before humans and monsters. The landscape is not untouched, because people have been using it for eons. Some of us may know where we originate, and there are many tales of how we came to be.

I think of the gnarly cottonwood and call it grandpa. It is sad to see his branches torn… Still though, he is very beautiful standing by the red river. The sun is falling, the clouds ignite. The old way is singing. Thunder comes to the canyon tonight and then the rain.

The Man in Black

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How I remember the good ‘ol times: “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash,”

As I dwell on the sorrows of humanity and the world, the desert, the animals, the wandering clouds, the sun blazing just before dark, I think of the salad days. Before those days, the old west, and the times that have long sailed into memory. Johnny Cash is a hero and he plays his spirited tunes down the old dirt road we go, the folk songs of our land. The lesser known songs pass into furthest trenches of my mind. There was no self-righteousness in Mr. Cash, especially when it came time to entertain the inmates at Folsom Prison, making them human once more in a strange land.

I think Johnny seen everything for what it really was. Never will I forget the man that makes my heart feel so big.

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.

Deep in the Precambrian

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The Textures of Picture Sandstone

Bottomless mountains rise
above the Virgin River Gorge
It is a strange day on top of Sullivan Canyon.
Thick white crystalline ledges dive into precambrian hell.
Pegmatite yields pomegranate beads of rich garnet.
Teethy shadows cling to desert oak with fingernails.
Manzanita grows exceptionally thick in twisty stands,
hard to push my sweaty body through.
Winged phantoms fear not my approach.
From the bowels something growls with enchantment.
Somewhere among the whispering Juniper forests
hides a tunnel leading to another place,
a vortex that radiates with unknown passions.
I turn on the headlamp, looking for treasure,
cities full of creatures and monsters of long ago.
I’ve dared the Earths gaping mouth.
so don’t tease this face or make smiles.
I’ve pitied the demons that deserved heaven.
Some demons were better then human.
In the wind, Grandma’s chimes dance,
and the canyon grows heavy on my mind.
I explore the talking night after my excursion.
Someday the unknown will unlock me some answers.
I dream of Precambrian hell.

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!

One Foot Man

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Things should be said, whether or not people choose to believe them. I should quit keeping certain things so secret and open up a bit as to why I am going into the wilderness so much. Out there, certain mysteries have been revealed. the fact is this, I have witnessed a lot of unbelievable things that I fear to tell people because they might not believe.

One of these stories involves the one foot man that lives in the Great Basin of Southern Utah. One night I was telling a story of the one foot man to some of my brother’s friends. We were staying in a small cabin of theirs out in Hamblin Valley, which is a famous place to gather Pine Nuts in the early fall. Joe’s friends are cowboys and they act real tough and such but not on the night that I told them this story of the one foot man. He?s a little creature, not much higher then a human knee. It isn’t human, and it does roam across the landscape. I will never reveal any more detail about this creature in this journal. That night out in Hamblin Valley, was a real jittery experience, because Joe’s tough cowboy friend started getting angry and confronted me during my storytelling. He told me to shut the hell up or else, and so I did, and ever since, I am careful as to whom I tell my stories to.

So I have contemplated as to whether I should tell certain tales on West Desert Journal? Some of the stuff that I write has is sugarcoating as to what remains covered by the curtain. I hesitate to tell some stories but in due time, I may choose to reveal certain slivers of truth and knowledge in relation to the experiences that I have had on the desert. There are enough of them to pass onto my future grandchildren. The unknown definitely exists and I warn you to be careful in them hills. Always inform somebody where you are going and never go against your better judgment or you could wind up raven food.

The story of the one foot man is not all that important, but it was to my advantage to scare a few country folks. Those who have heard my tales were angered, maybe even spooked beyond reason. What I say is true and I need to start writing about some of these events.

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 Christmas Dream

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Whether you celebrate Christmas or not, this is one of the rare Christmas poems that I wrote for the season. I wish everybody a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

The Christmas Dream

Tonight it snowed, but the fire danced.
The lights twinkled on the little spruce tree.
The children sang to their grandmother,
but now they sleep in their cozy beds.

The fire keeps the cabin warm in winter’s deep.
The soft bells are jingling in her mind.
We go back in time, when Jesus was born.
It was a miracle beneath the starry skies of Bethlehem.
Across the shadowy land, the shepherds
watched their herds of sheep.

The Christmas Spirit is strong tonight.
That Christmas tree sparkles.
The children sang their carols into memories,
and the old woman wept quietly in joy.

While battles are fought in far off lands,
and the snowy mountain freezes cold,
at least the little cabin is safe on Christmas Eve.
The dark earth kindles the ancient forest,
as a great-horned owl drinks the silvery moon.

The Grandmother dreams of the baby Jesus
wrapped warmly in a manger.
The candles burn bright in the Christmas dream.
The children sleep in their beds –
Inside the warm little cabin.

January is Approaching

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In January, the sun barely melts the frost in the morning. The high reaches no more then forty degrees Fahrenheit. The clouds snuggle closer to the earth, and the sun sets further towards the Southwest. Every exhalation is a warm visible steam jetting from the nostrils of creatures able to survive the hostility of the frigid desert. At night, under the moon, groups of Mule Deer bundle together and bed down beneath cottonwoods, near the farm communities. Driving steadily at night, on a frontage road, you drive no faster then thirty to avoid bouncing a buck. Locals go spotlighting in the middle of the night.

The days are so short with barely the chance to get anything done. The farmer barely has enough time to finish the chores before returning to the house to stoke the fire, to chop the wood, and feed the chickens. The old farmer or rancher, kicks off his smelly, snuggly boots, and flips on the television.

As one watches the flames dancing in the stove, they hear the chilling winds beat the house outside. A blizzard is on the way. The mother cat gave birth to six kittens just the other night. My grandmother used her padded arm for the mother cat to grip while she was in labor. Just like a human, she wanted every body close by to show support, especially grandmother. Now the mother cat follows grandma all around the house.

January is spent in the house hugging the stove. Unless you dress up in long johns and heavy flannel cloths, and a warm heavy wool hat. Then you can venture out into the frigid.

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.

Went South Last Night

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I went onto the Arizona Strip last night about thirty miles south of Saint George. I am going to go to Toroweap again and visit that grand place! It?s the 60-90 miles of dirt road that hinders most people from going there. The more time I spend in that country, the more I crave a BLM job there. Last night, I was shooting some photos, and had jump from one location to another so quickly, it almost gave me whip lash! The lighting was constantly changing. I would rush to my car, peel out, and fly to another location, creating those rooster tales behind my car. Then, the gigantic, beige moon climbs from behind a dark red mesa after the sun had settled. The air was warm, and the colors of dusk were quite astounding.

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…

Just a Ramble

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I’m just happy today, for no real particular reason? Maybe things are changing here in the desert. There was still a cricket singing this morning, in November. This I could get used to, being at 2000 feet above sea level, in an ocean of red sandstone. Saint George has got the worst traffic in the state, but it is not a bad little community. For work, I’ve been taking tickets at all the basketball games over at the Burns Arena. I’ll be doing this unless I get the job at the gift shop.

Last night, I was feeling restless. I didn’t want to go to sleep. So I drove the Neon out west of Saint George, down old Highway 91 into the desert.

I don’t know what to write, but I have to force myself to write something on the computer. My old writing professor always said those who were serious about writing for a living or for a readership, they should write at least once a day, and fill at least one page. That is what I do. If I don’t write in this journal, then I write in the composition notebook. But I am going to try and put some creative stuff on here soon some essays.

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.

Unplugging My Life

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I am getting burned out on college life, though it is something I don’t mind. Knowing that my mom and dad read this blog, I am going to be careful about what I say. That is why I have an anonymous blog. I love my parents, but at the same time, I like some privacy.

I need a change. Maybe I’ll do some sheep herding this summer? When lambing season starts next spring, I may call the Burtons in Parowan and ask for some work… THINGS ARE MUNDANE, so I’m looking for interesting things to do. I’m looking for work here in Saint George and there’s a Southwestern gift shop that might hire me. The stress I feel comes from the fear of getting plugged in further. I don’t want to be the guy with the tie and brief case… I’d prefer being a hobo, adventurer, traveler! Maybe truck driving would be an option? The urge to drive everywhere is very, very strong. This is a nomadic urge. If I had my way, I’d live in New Mexico, Nevada, Arizona, and finally Utah. I’d migrate back and forth at certain times of the year and stay busy that way. The desert never stops calling me either, so I don’t know what to think anymore.

Then I think about America and all the blind faith people put into their leaders. They vote for lying politicians thinking that things will eventually change someday… People have persuaded me to vote, but if I don’t vote, maybe it’s a way to stop recognizing a currupt system of government. True democracy didn’t start with America. I put a sticker on my car of Geronimo and his Warriors, with a quote that reads; “The Original Homeland Security, Fighting Terrorism Since 1492!”

The Constant Rain

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The rain pelts the ground
I hear the drum beat, the rattles
I see the landscape
drinking the moisture
I hear the birds singing
The billowing clouds are beautiful
Thunder shakes the land
the constant rain purifies

An old man lets the rain
soak his frail body
Warm summer freshness
Delightful!

Ghost Stranger

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The horned creature draws near
His eyes sockets are filled with dust.
Something dashes through through the trees, laughing
The visitor has come.

The painted female and male are holding hands.
The thunderbird dances.
The images are animating.
The pinions grow exceptionally thick.
The dead are visible from other dimensions.
The crickets chant.

Fearless whispers draw near.
Harrowing creatures wallow close.
I hear the creek sifting the ancient rocks.
The horned one is looking at me.
Dust filled eye sockets.

Edge of Silence

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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.

Sudden Changes

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It felt like summer again, here in Saint George. Last night it was real mild. I’m heading north this weekend to spend some time with my grandparents. Last night I drove west of Saint George, into Nevada again, just to go see some Joshua Trees out there. Man is it an amazing lost world. There is so much beauty, The highway cuts through the desert, but it still feels primordials.

At home last night, I did some writing on my computer, and ate Pinion Nuts while enjoying the late night warmth. It is the middle of October and feels like May. I’m pondering my life here in Saint George, and I don’t know where I will be a year from now? My destiny is unforeseen which worries me. There are times that I’ve felt uncertain about my future, but right now it remains largely unknown. I have no plans or goals to follow. My life seems correct at the moment, but could I adapt to sudden changes? If things were to morph, how would I adjust? I need to develop a plan of survival in case terrible events come to pass. Natural disasters are increasing. The intensity is startling.

Almost certainly, I can feel the head winds of a dark storm creeping into my reality, and into the reality of others in the Southwest. Things are not always going to be pleasant. The wilderness is a real escape from the world. Every journey digs deeper into my soul. No matter what happens, I am feeling safe and content. If things change, I need to be there for my family, to help them and protect them. They are all I have in this temporal world. But the desert seems to purify my worries and it may preserve me. There are places out there, where nobody ever goes, that I can find peace. Hopefully my loved ones can find peace in the wilderness, if things came crashing down.

Walls of Existence

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When I speak of tearing down the walls of existence, I mean in a peaceful and non-violent way. An individual can also tear down the walls of their own Existence. On the large scale, I want to change the culture that surrounds me; either that, or abandon it entirely. I believe what Ghandi said, that no conflict could be justified, even if it was for a good cause. So my passionate cause would have to be a peaceful revolution. I just don’t understand why some have the desire to inflict harm on others? And how some countries have an arrogant desire to wage unjustifiable warfare. I’ve noticed this desire in youngsters, when watching them kill fake people in combat video games. The phenomenon of humans killing humans on an international level is not a good thing. Islamic terrorists see the world through tiny keyholes, as much as any mainstream American.

So how can society ever change its approach towards the Earth, or any other living thing, when humans cannot even change the way they treat other humans?

I respect the Environment. I love the Earth. I also have a deep respect for the food I devour. As a carnivore, I love meat. When I pass away, I hope some animal will have me as a hardy meal.

Now back to tearing down the walls of existence. Here’s what it means on an individual basis. People need to change what is all too familiar about themselves. Tear down the walls of your own mindset, of your own viewpoint. Break the windows of everything you know. You can learn other worldviews and perspectives when you do this. You can learn to combat your own prejudices!

My father told me that he doesn’t trust those that claim to know everything. I believe in his proclamation: the more I learn, the less I know. ..and the more I discover, the evermore perplexed and moved by life I am.

I’ve heard that everything is happening, because we live in a world of suffering. I’m not entirely convinced of that.

The Winter Moon

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I can feel the winter snows getting ready to visit the high desert. I’m down at 2000 feet so I don’t have worry. Winter’s not a bad time to move about though. There’s nothing better then hiking through fresh snow under a full moon. I remember doing that a few years ago up on the mountain, over by Duck Creek. It was frigid, but beautiful. The forest was blanketed with dense white that glowed silver.

Other then that, I am expecting to see some magnificent thunder storms invade the red rock canyons. They usually come until mid November. That might not be the case though, it might just stay dry.

Ghost Piano

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I can smell the rotting wood floor, warped by a hundred years. The roof of the skeleton is still up, but a whole corner of the building is caved in. Bats hang in the corners, mice scurry underneath. I lift up some rusty sheet metal and a kangaroo rat darts blindly into the desert. The wind beats the old building and it creaks and groans with pain. A tumble weed runs through the center of town. There?s no humans here, no cars, but mine. Off in the distance bone colored mountains dance on the surface. There are no clouds in the sky. It?s the end of September, but feels like July.

I think of the 19th century, as I am heading home after dusk.. Men would kill each other over a smallest things. Look at a guy wrong, and he?d murder you. Over in Pioche, Nevada, seventy men were shot dead before someone passed away of natural causes. You go back in time while walking through that town. The only difference is the paved street. Like any place with a bad history, Pioche suffers a severe melancholy, and when you go through some of the historical buildings, they feel haunted.

In the rearview mirror I notice the eastern sky turning maroon and purple. The highway is monotonous. A ghost piano begins to play softly, taking me back.

I pull the car over, and just ponder in silence. This whole world seems crazy. I become restless, because the piano doesn?t stop. It is playing in my head, and I walk out into the darkness of the landscape, beneath the dense starry sky. The beautiful tune brings tears. I take a deep breath and lay on the desert floor, sifting my fingers through cold sand, listening to the dark wasteland beneath. A vehicle passes by on the highway every ten or fifteen minutes, but all I hear is the howling wind, the crickets, the bushes squeaking.

Absolute Silence

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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.

Edward Abbey

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Another person to educate your self about is Edward Abbey, a father to the Environmental Movement. I’ve read his books Desert Solitaire, and The Monkey Wrench Gang. Both demonstrate Edward’s intense love for the wilderness, but they also expose his racism towards Indigenous People, and his view that the wilderness was “untouched.” After reading these two books though, I feel that Cactus Ed was more then just some rugged individualist. They say he offended everybody, but the truth is, there’s no excuse for racism, bigotry, or intolerance. To the oppressive and colonial powers, and to Manifest Destiny, it sure must be convenient to believe in an imagined Pristine Wilderness, untouched, untamed, and wild. It seems to suggest that Native people were never here in the Southwest, or anywhere else in North America. Racism comes in many forms, even in certain areas of the Environmental Movement.

For more information visit: http://www.certain-natl.org/

Pristine Wilderness

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Tonight’s post is a little off on a tangent. But it deals with the false notion of Pristine Wilderness. First of all, educate yourself about who Michael Fatali is, and what he supposedly did in “vandalizing” the Delicate Arch here in Utah.

I posted the following response on a thread over at http://photo.net/ –

Think of this… The American Government desecrated Glen Canyon when they created Lake Powell. When they damned the Colorado river, in many TRUE aspects, they were “vandalizing” the canyon… Sorry people, I just don’t believe in a pristine wilderness. Michael Fatali made a mistake, but the arch has been there for millions of years, and the elements will continue to erode the arch away, until it collapses. It is a beautiful place that needs protection, but at the same time, there is an illusion in popular culture, that somehow the wilderness is untouched, untamed, and pristine. The fact is, humans have been dwelling in this part of the world for eons.

Again, look at Michael’s mistake. Then look at what the government does with our so-called “public lands.’ Then, think about your own perception of this. How do you define what is wilderness?

I wanted to post this tonight, because there is a real delusion that some Environmentalists have, a sincere belief in Pristine Wilderness. You could consider me an Environmentalist, but unlike a few in the Environmental Movement, I don’t believe in untouched wilderness areas. The Colorado Plateau is entrenched in the history of human habitation. I thought this was a good time to comment on this. If you have any opinions, or questions, feel free to comment…

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