West Desert Journal

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.

When I dissapear into the aged mountains, I don?t miss dreadful cities filled with uncordial human beings who are too busy, too rushed to know what nature sounds like. The uncanny wild is waiting for me, almost calling me by name. My companions are the faceless shadows that wander the landscape. I am mortal, but I know the personality of the wilderness, what she has not forgotten. If humans go to far, she will eventually stop them.

The people around me are so persistent, always persevering; they march forward with psychotic dreams of progress. They believe that they can conquer nature, and the Earth Mother in order to advance. They believe that somehow nature must adhere to them, and serve them. I’ve never put the wilderness above human welfare, but I am against those that exploite and would destroy beauty. Some can go into a deep canyon, and never really see anything. I sure do feel sorrow for their lack or sight. I believe people can listen to the strange things in the forest, or the mystifying roars of a river, and care for such things. Let the unknown continue it?s enigma, and secrets remain.

Yes, I prefer the dazzling vistas of cloud and rock to the monotony of everyday life. Like everyone else, I am plugged in. Like a virus, I wait.

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.

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/

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…

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.

The mountains are calling you brother
Come, they are waiting.
Come, there is a secret waiting.
You must go to the crossing

A child in dream
visits the mountains
converses with bears.
There is no fear.

Voices dance in shadows,
deep below luminous peaks
beneath the candled skies.

Yonder
the little mountain people dance
they dance and glow.
In the dark earth
they weave their cobwebs.

Come, says the the wailing wind.

In a classroom, the professor’s voice becomes background interference. My mind is somewhere on the landscape, far off in the Great Basin of Nevada. Those big cities become ghost towns. Wind and dust pass through the shattered windows of empty skyscrapers. There’s no electricity anywhere, except for one buzzing radio sucking on its last drop of current.

The storm grows enormous, sweeping across the landscape, causing everything to disappear. I’m dreaming of the deepness of rivers, and skeletons moving through the darkness of night. Sand is blowing from the dunes in summer. The Ocean’s flooding the coastlines. Hurricanes and tornadoes are on the rise. Earthquakes and volcanoes erupt. Hateful wars are waged. Desperate terrorists strike. International killing becomes so common place.

In the classroom, a talking professor is irrelevant. The class debates the social issues. The clock ticks onward. America keeps exploiting. The storm is building. The poor want a rebellion. Islamic militants are strapping bombs to themselves, blowing innocents apart. We cannot judge these things in black and white. Maybe it is natural for human beings to create murderous holocausts. Americans drop bombs from the sky, landing on villages, killing indiscriminately. For me, the line of terrorism is blurred. Politicians keep spewing misinformation. They say Americans have the best politicians money can buy. I’m trying to understand those that resist the system, to survive. I understand the wolf trapped in the cage.

The professor lectures, behind thick glasses. When the time?s up, I leave campus and head home, feeling agitated. Before I know it, I?m going down the highway, crowded with diesels and impatient motorists. Then, I?m driving passed ranches and alfalfa fields, down a frontage road to the edge of the wilderness. After turning the vehicle off, I spend hours in silence, dreaming of the Juniper covered hills.. The owl hoots, the junipers creak, the meadowlark whistles. The Earth’s power is revolutionary.

When will the machine sputter? I’m waiting for the lights to fade…

Someone rear ended me in Saint George, tonight. I don’t blame them though; they are victims in a way. The driving culture of Southern Utah is chaotic. Too many people in a hurry is the problem. It’s the dysfunctional fast lane society that we are all plugged into. The lady got a citation for following too close. My new vehicle is a 2005 Dodge Neon, maroon colored. So, I am going to need a new bumper.

I?m at the point in my life where I want to relax, and drop all material things. But I am plugged in. There?s no escape. There are those few quiet moments where I can see the cottonwoods bending in the wind, waving their mountainous branches. Or I can let the cold wind blow against my face on a late summer evening, sitting on the ledge of a sandstone cliff. I pull out of the fast lane for a few moments of intense silence, and remember when times were not so rushed, when I was innocent. My dream is in those unshapely cottonwoods that sway in the wind, singing like rivers. I won?t forget the dark thunderstorm on a late summer evening. While the front porch door slams and creaks in the undying wind, I will go out on the hammock and listen to the rain pelt the roof shingles.

The wanderlust returns? For now though, I am enjoying my schooling in Saint George. I am home in Southern Utah. I think I have found my niche in the arts. For the first time this semester I am taking art classes at the beginning level: oil painting, watercolor, and drawing; except for advanced photography. These classes are giving me instruction in areas where my talents are now being challenged. An oil painting class at the beginning level is a struggle. Yet today, I was painting and noticed that everything was falling into place. I had my own style. It actually looked like a landscape. This is going to be my first oil painting.

If I have potential in certain areas, where will this lead me? For the passed three years of school, I never reached the type of enlightenment that I am at now. Even if it weren?t my place, art has made me a happier individual. As I am driving along Sunset Boulevard, I look up at the deep red rock cliffs above Saint George, against the turquoise sky. I can see the red cliffs and blue sky in paint strokes, and I can see the textured shadows, but my mind tends to distort the image in an abstract way like Vincent van Gogh… The sun is falling into the deep west and the end of summer is drawing near.

If the wanderlust gets the best of me, I will run away to somewhere in the Southwest, which will be against my better judgment. If art becomes my focus, what will happen? I like writing, taking photographs, and driving into the wilderness. But what is my ultimate purpose? I follow my heart even if it pulls me into the darkness of a storm.

I’m living in the red rock country of Saint George, 2,000 feet above sea level. It is way to hot to hike . I haven’t been out to do any hiking, and I was wandering why? I realized it’s the heat. I’m gonna have to wait until fall for things to cool off. What a frying pan. I am so used to taking off on impulse, but the heat changes that, even before I realize it!

At two thousand feet above sea level, the desert?s a frying pan. Everything is sizzling in a mirage of buzzing locusts and deep blue sky. The sun glares on everything. In deep sandstone canyons, desert varmints can find some type of relief from the relentless heat under the cover of red rock cliffs. Right now is not the time for me to venture too far out, snd I was pondered why I hadn?t been visiting too many places. It is still inhospitable out there. Summer will remain in Dixie until around the first October. That is when summer starts to fade in red rock country. Later in the fall, this area opens up more. Rattle Snakes are gone for the season but the desert still blooms.

If I can, I am going to venture out to Toroweap, a three thousand foot drop down down to the Colorado River. The Arizona Strip is a phenomenal place. I can guarantee that it is one of the quietest and unearthly spots on Earth. When you pass over the strip on your way to the overlook, you?re actually passing through another world of surreal wasteland desert.

So I am waiting for the weather to cool off in Dixie, so I can travel down into the mysterious labyrinths of this ancient land. If you?re a city dweller, and I took you to some of these places, you?d never want to return to your old life. There is a beauty, a silence that human beings have broken their ties to. Like some, I have not forgotten certain things. I know of a beauty that I will never put down. Ever since I was little, I had a soft spot for the wilderness and its purity, but I don?t see it as pristine; humans have been apart of this land since the beginning of time. The mystery is in all the generations upon generations of human being that come and gone.

One day, things will change. They always do. Civilizations come and go. In geological time, it is the twinkling of an eye. For a very short time, I will enjoy my small, small existence on this beautiful planet that we know as our mother.

This looks like this is right up my alley, I’m going to it! I have a lot of respect for Mr. Everett Ruess. I read his wilderness journals a few times, after a close relative recommended his writings to me. In all honesty, I have to give credit to Everett for being a major inspiration, and role model. I share a lot of affinity with his ideas, and his outlook! Plus, he ventured into the same wilderness that I love so much. He heard the wilderness calling him. If you hear it calling, BEWARE! At the age of twenty, Everett dissapeared into the Escalante Wilderness, never to be seen again!

It is windy tonight.
The fiery sun sinks into
the mountains of burnished slopes.
Stars flood the heavens deep.

The canyon voice
whips through the Pinion and Juniper.
The basin below is cold and dusty.

The mountains are singing all night.
Come to me, say the mountains,
travel far into the wild
where the unknown waits.
The Tree Man will care for you…

It is in me.
I’m walking through a deep forest,
of gigantic pines.
I can see myself moving about
in the dream.

I’m a tree.
My arms are branches.
My feet are the roots.
I grow tall beside a
small mountain cabin.