West Desert Journal

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.

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.

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!

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.