West Desert Journal

The Jackelope is a rabbit species that inhabits the Western United States, and unlike any other type of rabbit, they grow antlers that are similar to a Mule Deer, or an Antelope. Evolutionary Theorists cannot explain as to how the Jackelope is able to produce antlers, or where this creature might have evolved. There is no evidence to explain how the Jackelope uses it’s antlers, or whether the animal is territorial or not.

Walking into the Sunshine Truck Stop the other day, I saw a Jackelope mounted to the wall. Even dead you don’t see very many representations of this animal. I peered into its dusty plastic eyes. His antlers were similar to that of a Mule Deer.

I would like to catch one of these elusive creatures. In all my time wandering the Desert Southwest, I have yet to see one in the wild. They are rarely spotted even more so then Mountain Lions. The US Government cannot prove their existence. Many skeptics will claim that they are a hoax or just a fable, but this is not true. My own grandfather killed one while he was gardening out at our ranch back in the 70’s. He put it in a plastic bag but the maggots got to it. So he wasn’t able to skin and mount it. This is what he told me.

Even though my sandals were worn out, I could not leave the red canyon behind. There was big cottonwood monsters in the river bottoms. The sand and air was warm. It was a frying pan, beneath the desert sun. The locusts buzzed like power lines, and the wind whipped those magnificent Cottonwoods. I even heard the mourning dove repeat his lonely call, over and over. Everything was so peaceful. I couldn’t leave the red canyon. I wanted to be there forever, even when the winter snows came…

…In the sage brush valleys of the Great Basin, I look out across them and they are some of the most isolated areas on the planet, and covered in fierce beauty. To the untrained eye, they would be nothing but useless desert. Cloud ships journey and cast their dark shadows upon the sage. When I am not physically in the Great Basin, these valleys are in my head, and in my dreams.

Coyote, wild and brave, thank you for coming within throwing distance of my camp that night. I was thrilled by the yips and howls of your siblings. There was an E.T. moon above the junipers, on that plateau near the Grand Canyon. I wanted to leave camp and walk in your direction, just seeing how close I could get before getting spooked.

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!

The voice of the dust storm roars, as the sand pin-stripes the vehicles that glide through the desert. Down the blue highway, they move in a line, like UFOs. It is dusk, and the sun has gone to bed. All is quiet with the sand plummeting into my vehicle, running over the highway. I leave the radio tuned into static, but a Mexican radio station fades in and out. The radio follows the RPM of the engine. It sounds mysterious. The time is drawing near, and something waits…

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.