West Desert Journal

It hits like a freight train, I get this uncanny urge to wander off into the mountains. It builds up like water against a weak dam. When I try to describe this to some family members, it angers them. When I was in high school, some of my friends thought I might be suicidal when I would venture into the wilderness, alone. On one occasion they went looking for me, because of this. At first I was surprised that they would consider this, but grateful that they cared enough to do so. Maybe people thought I was shy? In reality; I had a love affair with the lonesome wild. I’ve always had a wanderlust, a motivation to venture into the hills. My mother put a scrap book of poems, artwork, and stuff from my earlier years, up through my teens, and I profess the same things now, as I did then. Some poems I read were clear back to 1996 when I was 14. So this isn’t some passing phase.

My Samurai is working again. It is a bright lemon yellow, so if search and rescue ever have to come looking for me, it won’t be hard to find. I’ve been taking some more risky trails lately due to my 4×4 capability. Having this power comes with more responsibility. Most people think I’m crazy to go to places like the Mormon mountains, alone. The problem is I cannot persuade anybody to come along. So it is just me and nobody! My brother, Joe, is coming home from New York this July, so I hope he’ll accompany me on some of my storm cloud expeditions?

The real fact remains, that I prefer going into the wild alone with no-one accompanying me. It is a very different experience then when I’m with others. Things happen then. When I’m with people, I talk too much. When I’m alone, it’s just thoughts and emotions. It’s easier to tune into the unknown and ponder this beautiful world.

I’m tired of the same regurgitation. The mountains hear my plea and they are always listening.

i am leaving home
to join my soul, the wild.
leaving my loved-ones
for earth’s darkness.
the universe sings forever.
the desert calls.
i’ve been patient
in my planning.
no one really hears the mysteries,
or why the heavens weep.
The land’s transforming.
old ways dance in my heart.
my spirit is fiery.
the horizon waits.
i’ll find the place
where nothing ever sleeps.
tonight, i pack travel food
and journey into the desert.
the wind whipped wasteland is glistening.
my dreams haunt
bottomless basin mountains.
my heart is in the tower of stars.
the desert is calling.
in this darkening hour,
it’s a conjuring whisper.
i can’t be late for an appointment
with the shadows
of the land.

I just moved from Saint George, Utah, back to Parowan - Which I heard means Evil Waters to the Southern Paiute. Anyways, there’s stories around here of a hairy man, especially over by Enterprise Utah. I avoid certain parts of that country when going in alone… There’s an extreme feeling of melencholy there, because of a massacre site known as the Mountain Meadows Massacre, where Mormons killed over 200 people that were passing through back in the 19th century.

My grandpa has a bigfoot story, and he says the creature moved around him taking strides longer then that of a human being, and it walked in about 2-3 circles before grandpa decided to jump on his 4-wheeler and leave. He never saw anything, though. This happened up in the Tuscher Mountains, above Beaver, Utah. He was out rock hounding and it was after dark. Most people look at me in an unserious way when I admit that I believe.

A boy sat outside the village
looking at the grave yard at the mesa’s edge.
“What ever happened to the dead?” he pondered.
“Are they living some where else far away?”

Skeletons walking around after
the day turns to night
inspires the boy to dream of
the darkness and deepness of rivers.

“Are the dead living somewhere else?”
Out on the mesa edge he prays every morning.
He prays, waiting for the sun to come up;
to come over and talk to him.

Every night, he dreams of the
medicine that will make him dead.
He wants to go see the corpse house. Please come.
The sound is making him old.
His dream for the crimson light is fading.

“Poem inspired from a Hopi story.”

dark rain clouds
wander the blue sky
making the dream come
alive a vision of the
land singing

Then cries the raven
from its hollow in the
knarled tree
that twists its branches
into the ancient wind

Thunder echoes way across
the desert yonder
farther than
the eyes can see

The black rock
was the blood of
that ancient beast
that was slain so
long ago

the locust begin buzzing
and an eagle heralds the dawn
when that sun peaks
up over the rim of mountains
the clouds catch
pink-red rays

The old man pulls up his
trousers because
of no suspenders. He laughs
out with his diabetic belly
and sings of how he has
“Noassatall disease”

The grand kids pile out of
the truck, hollering and
shouting as grandpa sticks
his false teeth back in

while heavens above are glistening
and the happy meadow lark sings of
a beautiful new day

Why are Americans so paranoid about illegal immigration?

Americans need to stop and think about their own roots… I know of a T-shirt that reads; “Ask an American Indian what they think of illegal immigration!”

Think about the hypocrisy Americans have towards illegal immigration, when some of our own ancestors were illegal invaders to this continent. A lot of these “illegal” immigrants are indigenous people that were here long before Columbus set foot.

These Mexicans are risking their lives and dying out in the desert for what I have. That is an indicator helping me realize how privileged I am as an American.

Americans claim they worked hard for what they have, but how hard is life for those that have to survive down there in Mexico? I see these Mexican folks on a day-to-day basis, and they are not a threat, but are friends and neighbors. Americans need to chill out and find more optimism.

I’m tired of seeing the animosity against these folks; they are good people who contribute to America. We have always been a melting pot (or tossed salad) of many different ethnic groups, cultures and peoples. In many ways, this country was built by immigrants.