no one knows about it

Jared and I went back to the desert last weekend, together this time. And with our fuzzy beasts. The amazing thing about Utah is that it has five national parks, myriad state parks, and then places like this, that are what I imagine the Grand Canyon looks like, that are just BLM land, and you can crawl all over it with your dogs, and camp right on the edge of the canyon and no one is there, because no one knows about it.


There was something Mary said in an email yesterday, “We took the trolley tour in Savannah, we went to the beach with the dog, we went bowling. It was a trip we couldn't afford, but aren't those always the best ones?” that made me think about something.

I’ve been on a creative binge lately. I wake up and start writing. I write in my journal, then I work on a story, or this video I’m working on that I’m creating a kind of prose sestina for, then I think of a story that would be good to look at, so I read for an hour, and by two I’m still in my pajamas. And then I turn on the phone and listen to my messages and make vows to myself to call people back later, and then answer a couple emails, and vow to answer the others later, and then take a shower, and then get to work, late. And it’s the slow season at work, so I’m not making enough money to cover my expenses this month, so there’s this financial urgency hanging over my head. But I think, maybe, I’m turning the financial urgency into creative urgency. It feels hard to admit it, because if I say it out loud, or write it, I feel like I’ll have to stop. But it feels like grace. Like I’m sneaking grace.

the end of the earth

On Island in the Sky in Canyonlands, you just keep following the road until you get to the end of the earth. It's marked by a cairn, and then there's a cliff that drops a thousand feet or so, and below you are the canyons and rivers that are part of some other place, the place below earth, and it spreads out before you forever.


It's what I'd always expected, from the time I was little, and we'd be driving down the 99 and I'd ask my mom where the road ended. Somehow, I always knew this was where.


This is a path that runs along the edge of the earth.


I think sleeping in my car satisfies some deep desire in me to be a turtle, or a snail. The back of my car is really not long enough for me to sleep in, so I was diagonal and curled all night, but I was so happy. I camped in my car, by myself. The first night I read a book of creation myths by candlelight, and when I finally blew out the candle and looked out the window, there seemed to be as much starmatter in the sky as there was dark space between stars. Each thing in the desert feels distinct, the plants, the jackrabbit I met while picking sage, the stars, but especially the sounds. It's quiet. A crow flew overhead while I was sitting in my camp and it's wings made a sound that was somewhere in-between newspaper and heartbeat. A swallow swooped past me while I was overlooking a canyon, and it made a sound like wind ripping along a high-tension cable. When I woke up the first morning there I wrote in my journal: "I am delighted with the red dirt here, and the trees-- the piñons and junipers feel like friends, like species that I have relationships with, I know them like I know oaks and dogs. Even though I admire the trees in the mountains, I don't feel that instant friendliness, or maybe the feeling of family, almost, that this desert has for me."

It was beautiful down there, sunny and warm, but cool enough to hike all day on Monday.


Here is another spot I hiked to. You approach this lovely little arch, and then the ground falls away on the other side.


I'm home now and it is snowstorming again today. I feel like I've used all my credits for incredulousness well over a month ago. I'm going to go to the desert as much as possible this spring.