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.
3 comments:
That first picture looks like Mars.
When I was a child on road trips with my family, I'd pretend my hand was a turtle. The middle finger was the head (giraffe-turtle? who knows?), the rest were the legs. I'd close my fist and imagine this whole big mansion land inside the shell of the turtle, the inside bigger than the outside. I'd walk my turtle along the window of the car.
Such is the life of the only child?
They recently made a movie that was set inside Oscar's trashcan.
I find that kind of terrible, and horribly tantalizing, like Sesame Street rubbernecking.
I was so tortured by wanting to see in that trashcan. It was totally waaaay bigger inside than outside.
I had a dream the other night about moving into my own tiny house that was about the same size as my real-life car. But it had turrets (with itty little spiral staircases that I would never be able to get up.) The bed was the size of a baby crib, but I was in love with my little house.
http://www.resourcesforlife.com/small-house-society
Join it!
(I love little tiny houses, where the bed folds out of the wall and walls slide open and tip upside down so you have a whole new room...)
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