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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pine trees howl with wind as it whips through the forest and cloud ships sail above the evergreen steeples. That bristlecone sky is ageless. The sticks crack beneath my feet. The forest howls like river rapids. I set the camping pack against a tree, lie down on the forest floor and close my eyes. As the tireless river flows like violent waves crashing into a sandy beach at midnight. The water is restless as if waiting to drown the living. But it is peaceful and enormous. The boundary of reality fades, and the mystery washes me away to a far off place.

Just imagine the reality, I live to be a hundred. My loved ones carry my body into the most desolate of canyons, somewhere off in Canyon Country. Yes, I had lived a good life and loved a beautiful woman. She and I ventured all the wild places. Finally, they dump me in some ravine. Sad they are, because they wanted to give me a proper funeral, but I wouldn’t allow it. After they say their last words and leave, the coyotes come out after dusk, yipping and howling like the wind.

But now, I truly feel the lonesomeness of the remote things in life. All is quiet in this peaceful world. Off into the deep woods I come face to face with my own spirit. It is in the wild that I bathed in strange conversations with the tree man. Like Rip Van Winkle, I fell asleep beneath a blue berried juniper, and there I dreamed.

There is no other place, like a hermit’s roost ten thousand miles in the middle of nowhere.

Chimpanzees are genetically 98% similar to human beings. That makes them the closest living relative to the human race. So why isn’t this okay? Is science really challenging religion? Or are we just keeping our minds closed to the evidence that is out there? Humans act similar to Chimpanzees. When the human male wants to show that he is stronger then another individual, he’ll demonstrate this by throwing objects at the floor, or raising his voice, or will act in an aggressive manner. This is the way that Chimpanzees behave. So what is the difference between us and them? They behave like us; they get depressed like us.

When I was a little, I remember watching the Chimpanzees at the Hogle Zoo, in Salt Lake City, Utah. It was hard for me to decipher the differences between the hands the chimps had, and human hands. I was fascinated with the feet of the Chimps, because they looked like hairy human hands. I remember my innocence, as I watched the monkeys in the jungle gym, and how they were very hard to distinguish from the humans. I remember this, before I learned the prejudices later on. As a child, I had an open minded acceptance that Chimpanzees and other apes were somehow our relatives. As I look back on the knowledge that I had, I want to find that same acceptance again.

So what is the real difference from human and Apes? Apes are unable to build cars, they don’t speak human language, and they definitely are not capable of producing the most sophisticated art. But Chimpanzees do have innovators because it is proven that they can invent very simple tools. Jane Goodman observed Chimpanzees using grass reeds and sticks to extract termites. The young ones learned and observed their parents, and they in turn figured it out. They had the talent and that ability to learn. They had social structures, and matriarchal leaders. They had disputes, and resolved them quickly, showing their affection and reassurance by grooming each other.

So I accept the fact that Chimpanzees are my relatives. What is so wrong with that? They are family, though they are truly inferior. But the fact is, when I was a child, I did not see these creatures as inferior. I didn’t even see them as animals. I hadn’t developed these perceptions, until I was to become older. So at one time, chimps were my equals, and they shared that connection. I remember sitting there at the exhibit, and having a diapered chimp walking up to the window, and having him study me with curious eyes. He was on my level, and he could’ve been a playmate, if there hadn’t been the glass that separated us.

Cloud shadows ascend castling red cliffs. I’m beneath those sailing clouds as they travel the dense blue sky. The red desert is infinite to my measly existence. Traveling down highway 89, across Dinetah, I cannot keep my eyes off the desert landscape of tall cliffs, sandstone stairways, and thick bedrock. Little Hogans stand beneath large rock faces, and steep inclines that cast their dark shadows. It’s not necessarily the geology of Northern Arizona that steals my breath, nor the process of how the Navajo Sandstone was formed, or how the Moenkopi formation came to be, or how the Painted Desert could’ve once been a tropical beach… It’s the immediate beauty of the land, and the blood and beat of silence out there. I think of the geology, and it is truly astounding, but the timelessness of Navajoland is the prime intoxicator. I’m hopelessly attracted to the beauty of the Colorado Plateau and these quiet places. It is a privilege.

I know a joy that I cannot expect others to feel. It is religious, and spiritual. It’s the beauty of Mother Earth. There are so many out there, that don’t really care about beauty. In fact, it can stare at them in the face, and they would only see something to exploite.

In the end, the desert is where I’ll die, where coyotes and other cuddly varmints can feed on my entrails, after my children and loved ones dump my old carcass in the boonies. My skull can bleach in the afternoon sun and the sand will dance in my empty eye sockets. My digested flesh will course the blood vessels of wily coyotes and in the winged raptors that plane the turquoise blue. This should be so simple to understand, yet it is so impossible to get across to people. But again, some don’t care and they never will. Please keep me from the coffin, and to all Mormons: If I get resurrected, not a hair on my head will be lost, according to god’s promise! So I don’t need some cemetery, although my loved ones are important to me.

The trees, the sky, the wilderness, sings! The landscape is inseparable. You cannot pull me from its tremendousness!

Out there, the desert whirl winds pass across white, cracked wastlands, beneath turquoise sky; sending tumble weeds into flight and stirring thick clouds of fine dirt. There are ranchers somewhere in those foothills below Mt. Trumbell. I am betting over half of them have never seen the Toroweap Overlook of the Grand Canyon. They’ve spent their whole lives ranching, farming, and taking care of livestock, but they really haven’t seen the complete beauty of this landscape or what hides in it?

When my grandfather was a boy, he ran sheep out on the Arizona strip. He wandered all over the foothills and the wilderness of Mt. Trumbell, but he never actually journeyed to Toroweap. Very few people will get a chance to see this eery and sacred place. I’ve been to Toroweap twice, and I promise you, it is one of the quietest spots on Earth. The Toroweap Overlook is a 3,000 foot drop from the rim, down to the base of the Colorado River, that makes its way towards Lake Mead.

There are voices on the wind. There is dead silence out there. The silence of mystery, and the howling wind as it shakes your spirit, and whips through your hair. Go out to the edge of the cliffs, along Toroweap, and hang your arms over the edge. Occasionally, wind comes rushing up the sandstone face, and slams into you. It feels like sky diving!

Most tourists wouldn’t dare traverse the 67 miles of rough dirt road, that it takes to reach Toroweap. It is one of the greatest beauties of the Grand Canyon. On a cloudy, rainy day, just before sunset, the sun burns the clouds, and the place becomes alien to its own existence. Like an incredible painting, it becomes awesome and surreal.

Most people have never experienced absolute isolation. Bring Easterners out here, from New York, or elsewhere, and they would never want to return to their old lives. They would feel an immense peace. I?ve been a sheep herder, and I’ve wandered the lonely hills of Northern Arizona and Southern Utah. There is nothing but absolute peace out in them hills, which the Junipers call home. Those Junipers talk, and they talk to humans. You’ll hear them, if you know how to listen.

So, one of my secret spots, beside many on the Arizona Strip, is Toroweap. I am revealing that to you. If you truly want your breath taken away, go to this silent place. And be careful and mindful there.

I cannot get the wild places out of my mind. I cannot ignore the wilderness. It haunts me. The blue sky haunts my dreams. My heart is apart of the beauty. The landscape is truly my love. I wander in solitude, and know beauty. I go deeper into these dreams, and I cannot resist their power. The land has infected me with happiness that most will never know. When I watch that setting sun, as it slices through the Pinion, I want to remain under the big sky forever.

My life is in two places; that of the wild, and that of civilization. My existence remains there in the cities and towns, and then something waits for me, beyond the city limits.

There is no time in the wilderness. Those red cliffs are older then human evolution. In so-called geological time, it takes millions of years to erode away mountains and create plateaus. A sandstone ridge shades twisted Junipers, and within their scaly branches, the wind never stops. Clouds constantly shift above the plateau, creating shapes that appear once, never to be seen again.

They say if a tree falls over in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, should it matter? If a rockslide drops a million tons sandstone, does it matter? And does it matter that the landscape is constantly shifting, eroding, and melting away? It changes in the absence of humans. We don’t really matter either, because we are only a micro chapter in the history of the Earth’s evolution. As humans build their citified boundaries, closer and closer, with every minute; would it really matter if we simply vanished? Just imagine those big ghost cities left to the wind!

My joy is the cloud and cliff, the juniper, the pine. My happiness comes from sifting the cold sand with my bare feet, or walking across the desert after a fresh cloud burst in the summertime. It’s just me in a sandstone canyon, and the distant thunder. There is no “time” out here; only hypnotic memories, and unforgettable visions. Freedom is breathing wide open space, and to relax beneath blue desert sky.

The wild is my haven, where I travel across the land like a spirited horse, or a lazy eagle in the blue. The old ways are still here. The Cottonwood still bends to the wind, and creaks. The unknown still comes to my door.

Go to places where the sage grows tall, and mountain islands float in desert ocean. Go where there are no other human beings… Maybe once a month you’ll spot another two-legged! Venture into the timelessness, and it is so quiet, you’ll be able to hear the moon rise, and the sun rumble before dawn.

Beauty is simple and elegant. You should simplify, and appreciate those moments of solitude, and seclusion. Let those worries fade away. Stop being sad. Listen to the timeless, where billions of years come and go in a flicker. There is no beginning, nor end. You just need to simplify. You’re in a quiet world. It is just you, the varmints, and the desert; the mountains, forests, and plateaus. Maybe you’re in a cabin with loved ones, somewhere faraway. Journey into corners of God’s deep imagination.

The cloud shadows pass through my mind, through my spirit like flickering light. I venture into a trance-like day dream, somewhere quiet, deep into the dreamer’s wilderness. There are no cities, no structures, except black desert shadows trailing from the hot sun. The planet is a hearth of quiet suspension. I can meditate on what happened so long ago. There is nothing in my existence more powerful then the turning wind, and the flow of natural elements. Neither is there anything more great than the turquoise sky, and the deep sandstone canyons. Except for the image of an old rusty grandmother, shrouded in mystery. Through my eye, I see her in long sleeves and skirt, moving about, gathering corn, or the eggs from her chickens. She’s nursing the doggies as they struggle to survive. I see her moving around on a dusty afternoon, on some desolate ranch, working hard and long, until dusk. Her deep eyes gaze into mine as she smiles every now and then, and every time she passes by. Her image quietly fades away… I ponder the deepness of rivers, and of deep sandstone canyons, and the sweet smell of desert rain.

I think about the previous worlds of long ago, and the sight of this grandma. She didn’t speak to me, but she gave the most incredible smile. Way out in the boonies, where no one ever goes; there is something waiting to take me to another place, where wisdom never stops, where people have been on the journey of life much, much longer.