Journal

“Absolutely not,” my friend said, while giving me a drive home from the airport.

I had just asked him pointedly: “If you were absolutely, positively certain that nobody would find out, would you cheat? If you knew nobody would ever know, could never know?”

“No. Unquestionably not. For one thing, I would know.”

Vegas airport departure mandate

The promise that nothing leaves the city evidently doesn’t include the realm of the conscience. Or maybe I just pick good friends. In any case it’s good to be home.

Changing circumstances require that I leave the mountaintop early and return to the valley. At first I was upset but then recalled how I began understanding my vacation.

Who are you? was the simple essay question we were given once in school. How we define things is immensely important. I eventually came to define my time out here as a driving tour, and this alleviated any anxiety about not staying at a place longer. It hasn’t been a camping or hiking tour.

Who are you? The question was answered by most of us at that age by our work: “I am a waiter,” for instance.

As I continue driving South and the landscape changes once again, I reflect on the importance of a self-narrative as one enters into the long decades of middle age, the summer of our lives. It is during this time that the mid-life crisis occurs, that ridiculed period which is so vital for maturation. If you want to understand what is most important in life you need only look at what society belittles. Behavioral psychologists tell us that it is through the crisis that the opportunity for growth is greatest. We have a chance to redefine ourselves in a way which will see us through the decades ahead. The old models are reexamined. What got us this far isn’t often what can take us further.

Saguaro cacti begin appearing on the landscape. They are a welcome sight.

But to understand the truth of who we really are, the most effective narrative comes from outside us. Otherwise it will always be relative to us, and therefore subject to change and, consequently, anxiety. A man who defines himself as a father may lose his children and then is lost himself. A woman who defines herself solely by her relationship to a man is lost if the relationship ends. People who define themselves according to their career are lost if they suddenly can no longer work.

You are salt.

The Saguaro line the hillsides like silent watchers. They each seem to have their own unique personality. Their proportions and appendages give them a human-like quality.

The temperature rises as I continue to descend.

You are light.

Two Saguaro sentinels bid me step aside for one last time. Listen.

You are a fruitful branch.

* * *

“Why can’t those conservative Christians just let them alone?” my friend asked, spitting out the words conservative Christians like they were poison. She was referring to abortion and her question, spoken with such vitriol, clearly did not suggest the possibility of a change of opinion. I just sat in silence, and wondered if her position was formed by a careful consideration and study of the classical purpose of the formation of governments (the protection of the citizenry) or formed by the remarkably successful propaganda machine in place throughout our culture. A machine which has repeated the mantra choice so much that it has elevated the sanctity of decision above that which is actually being chosen. Choice was once the mantra used in the Coke & Pepsi debate. Now it refers to human life, and those speaking up to defend it are described using the same language as terrorists: extremists, radicals, right-wingers. The culture of death has indeed been profoundly successful when it has caused the educated to describe the most important issue of our time as the economy while there are so many whose goal is to simply be born.

More than anything this trip has made me grateful to be, grateful that someone had the courage to say of me “leave him alone.” It inspires me to return the favor. It inspires me to remind others that we form governments for the fundamental purpose of protecting ourselves from one another, not to simply establish conditions of economic prosperity and the accumulation of wealth. Conditions which, ironically, have not resulted in the overabundance of happiness but in a kind of pathos which results in conclusions such as my friend arrived at: “Choice – even if it means the extermination of the human race.”

Here at the Easternmost reach of my journey, at Petrified Forest National Park, I finally escape the press of the crowds. Those Parks further West are within easy range of millions of Southern Californians and those many Europeans using Los Angeles as their staging city. Here I almost have the entire Park to myself.

I select a short hiking trail near the road and then depart from it, heading out into the open country. I yearn for my camping gear and a week’s worth of food and water. An afternoon is all I am accorded. It will have to do.

I scramble down over the cliff wall with the care of someone who knows he is alone and would not be found for a long time if hurt. As I head out into the wash I continuously look behind me, memorizing the path I took down. Every twenty steps or so, due to the changing angles and because everything looks so similar, I take another bearing. There aren’t many access points out of the basin and I have no intention of not finding my way out. These are strange lands to me; I am accustomed to the forests of the East.

Alone

Since ancient times man has sought solitary places in order to reassess and reapportion, to listen to the voice unmasking the illusions he may be living under, and to do battle. Gird the loins of your mind…fashion yourself… are the words which I opened to at random in 1 Peter before leaving my house and they have remained with me every day while here.

To gird your loins means to gather up your robe and tie it around your waist in preparation for running or doing battle. Therefore another translation often used is prepare your minds for action. G. K. Chesterton once wrote “The object of opening the mind, as of opening the mouth, is to shut it again on something solid.” It is foolish to go adrift into solitude, opening ones mind to any influence or stray thought. The desert Fathers knew this, and taught extensively on the importance of the discernment of thoughts. Cassian and many others wrote a great deal about it.

I go because called. It is not you who have chosen me…

Looking North - Navajo Nation

Later on back at my car a crow is waiting for me. I’m surprised at how much I welcome his companionship. We eat pistachios together. He opens them better than I do. My friend and I spend a lot of time together until I reluctantly leave. But I’ll see him again down the road. I’ve seen him every day since being here, him or one of his brothers. One always draws near to me when I’ve needed.

Brother crow

There is one myth which solitude seems unable to dispel, which our senses, to which we are so deeply habituated, belie. The myth that we are ever truly alone.

Lowell Observatory is on a mountaintop in Flagstaff, Arizona. It’s famous for being the observatory where Pluto was discovered in 1930. Because of various circumstances I’m given a private tour of the observatories, which is remarkable. My cute, bubbly and nerdy young guide first takes me to the “Pluto Telescope.” This is the telescope which was used to take the photographic plates off of which Pluto was discovered. I was allowed to slew it around. It’s very well balanced.

Note to self: remember to take the lens shroud off for flash work

She next took me to the Clark Telescope, a 24 inch refractor Percival Lowell used to make sketches of Mars. I was also allowed to slew this telescope around by hand once she released the Dec lock. I was also allowed to operate the dome, turning it around about an 1/8th of a turn and back.

A man crawls up inside this to clean the upper lens

Back inside the visitor center I spend some time examining a fragment of a meteorite they have on display. This is a tiny part of a much larger meteor which fell in the area 50,000 years ago. It’s nearly all iron and weighs almost 600 pounds. It’s about the size of a swiss exercise ball half deflated. I find it fascinating.

On the drive back out there was an overlook, offering a nice view over Flagstaff.

I decide not to spend the night at Flagstaff but head East on I-40. Suddenly I start seeing signs for “Meteor Crater,” the very crater from which the meteorite I just examined came! Sometimes having no itinerary whatsoever works in your favor. It turns out that the crater is a mere five miles south off of I-40. I drive in and am dismayed to find this extraordinary feature of planet Earth is actually owned by a private corporation. There is a fence all around it and the admission fee is $16 for one adult. What a sham. How can someone own something like this? There should be a sign which reads “Free for residents of planet Earth.” Nevertheless, despite only having 30 minutes left until closing time there is no possible way I’m passing this by, no matter the cost.

I’m awestruck by the size of this, “the best preserved impact site on earth.”

A true wonder on our planet

As darkness descends I drive into Winslow, Arizona to look for the girl in the flatbed Ford. I don’t find her but I do find Mary, the owner of Bojo’s. As I’m eating my typical dinner of steak and Jack Daniels she tells me all about her life. She is an undergraduate of UNC and a graduate of Duke and taught in Charlotte for years. She owned bowling lanes near where I grew up in Pennsylvania and reeled off the names of towns and roads in the area better than even I remember. Her daughter was a star bowler on the Olympic team and is, or was, the coach. Mary herself once bowled with the famous Earl Anthony on television. (Upon telling me this she proceeded to show me proper bowling form across the floor of the bar). She opened a bowling lane in Winslow when she and her husband drove through the area in 1980 and decided to stay. (She insists it was a complete whim). She taught the town to bowl and eventually sold the lanes and opened a furniture store and now has one of the only dealers of that kind of furniture outside of Vegas. And the stories rolled on and on for an hour. She had a willing and captive audience and was really working it. I mentioned I had just come from the observatory. She said she just had one of her family members out showing them Jupiter. ” ‘Isn’t it amazing,’ I told him, ‘89,000 miles in diameter!’”

I cocked an eyebrow, trying to remember the number she just reeled off so as to check her facts later. She misinterpreted my gesture.

“I know!” she said, “he didn’t even know! Don’t they teach science in schools anymore?”

Mary is 86 years old.

After morning Mass (during which the priest led us in a beautiful rendition of “We Shall Overcome” to honor MLK Jr) I head East on 69 then North on I-17, exiting on route 179. I’ve entered Red Rock Scenic Byway and it does not disappoint.

From the visitors center at the start

The day is cloudy and cool. The scenery improves as I enter the areas in the valleys.

I begin thinking I’ve seen this scenery before – Utah. The difference here is that the area is well developed, with a busy scenic highway winding through it leading to Sedona.

Heading down into beautiful Sedona, Arizona

Sedona

I had heard so much about Sedona. There is no denying this is a beautiful town. It is very well designed, very clean, pedestrian friendly and in a location which cannot be matched. But the traveler has to be prepared for what it is – a tourist destination with worldwide popularity. Everywhere are signs for jeep tours and backcountry trips. There are many shops selling crystals and minerals, art and Native American flutes. After being accustomed to witnessing such scenery from the protection of a National Park I find it all a bit much. I have lunch here and move on.

Flagstaff

Continuing along route 89 I drove far up and out of the Sedona middle land into the Flagstaff highland, up to 7000 feet. Unfortunately the scenic overlook was closed because of snow. It would have been an incredible sight looking back down through the snow covered mountains into the clear red rock areas below.

Elk. Next ten miles.

As I enter Flagstaff I really haven’t a clue as to what comes next. Just the way I like it.

After early Sunday Mass at St. Christopher of the Desert I leave the chaotic Yucca Valley region behind and head East on route 62. I pass the Pinto Mountains, the Sheep Hole Mountains and cross over the Coxcomb Mountains. Once I have Twentynine Palms behind me the scenery starts becoming beautiful again. I begin thinking “this is the nicest drive yet,” though the landscape as usual defies my desire to photograph it. This image is but a small slice of a grand sweeping vista which carries on far to the left for many miles. What the photo also doesn’t show is the ribbon of roadway disappearing into a pinpoint far into the horizon.

Somewhere near Rice, CA on Route 62

It is a heavenly drive. There is a profound Presence of stillness along with me and the taste of holiness. At times like this I “take my sandals off” because the burning bush is near. Though I can’t do it physically I humble my disposition, open my heart, offer presence back.

I enter Parker, Arizona and proceed down route 72.

Desert Sightings

This route today is not lacking in strange sights. Somewhere along my route, far out in the desert (I made a mental note that it was at least 40-50 miles away from any services), back off the edge of the road is a man in plain street clothes. He is bent over, brushing his teeth. Next to him is a beat up bike with what appears to be a bed roll tied to it. I don’t see any other gear. This is such an incongruous sight I am completely befuddled. If I was making such a journey I would have expensive gear and lots of it. This strange fellow was brushing his teeth as though he was about to roll into town on a date in a few minutes. Dressed the way he was, given the bike he had, he was facing at least an all day journey to get to resources. And where was his water and food? And where did he come from?

Further along the trip the road began running parallel to a railroad track. Along the grade of the track someone placed rocks and spelled their name. Then I saw heart shapes. Then other shapes, then other names. They continued this way for miles. There were thousands of names and symbols spelled out with rocks along the shallow track grade, out in the middle of nowhere, at least 50 miles from any town. What is this? Who did this? It had to have taken years to accumulate. Why this spot? What? Who?

All along this railroad grade are thousands of names. Zoom in.

Unfortunately there was nowhere to pull over to photograph them, and the berm was sandy and deep.

Yet again further along I came across a shape by the side of the road. As I approached I noticed it was a man with about four or five massive duffel bags. He was hunched over, two bags on his back, one under each arm. He was shuffling along as though he was about to make it to a bus stop any minute. I hadn’t seen a sign of another car in nearly an hour. Who? How? What?

As I came out of the wilderness and entered the tiny little “town” of Hope (nothing more than an RV park) I proceeded East on route 60 to Wickenburg. RV parks sprinkled the route as well as beat up trailer homes. I entered the decent little town of Wickenburg and head to a sports bar to watch the first half of the Giants/Packers game. I then shoot north on route 89. Route 89 is designated as a scenic drive in my atlas and it certainly lives up to it.  Up, up and up it wound out of the valley far up into the mountains in a stunning route which reminded me of the famous Hana Highway in Maui. And just like that highway I eventually grew very tired of this road and its painfully slow switchbacks. To tell the truth I expected to make it to Prescott for the fourth quarter of the game but it was at least on the radio.

Prescott is a nice little town up in the mountains. The sight of evergreen trees is a welcome sight but the sight of snow is not. It is here I will stay for the night.

This is the second National Park I’ve visited this trip. Being a fan of our nation’s National Park System I’ve scratched my head over each of them. They do not seem to measure up to the great standards originally set by the founders of the National Parks. They certainly merit protection as National Monuments. Then I read that Congress and Clinton in 1994 via the California Desert Protection Act made them National Parks. If that’s what it takes, I guess, so be it. They would be near the bottom of a recommended list of Parks to visit if I were to give a list to someone.

Joshua Tree does have a very interesting landscape. Much of it appears like a massive rock garden, with enormous boulders strewn about and piled up in strange formations. It is a rock climbers dream. Interspersed throughout all these rocks are Joshua Trees, Pinyon Pines and Yucca plants. The Park is located in the Little Bernardino Mountains and contains both the Colorado desert and the Mojave desert.

Today I hiked the Hidden Valley loop. At its apex I continued along off the trail for 1/4 mile or so to find some solitude. The Park’s proximity to Southern California makes it very busy. There were some parking lots which were simply too full to park and hike.

Yucca, Pinyon Pine and Me

I spent a good bit of time talking to a couple of rock climbers. They taught me some things and I shared outdoor stories with them. I found in them kindred spirits. Watching them work the rock I was inspired to consider taking it up. They told me I was definitely not too old to start. They climb with a man in his 70’s. They confirmed for me that one of the main reasons people rock climb is the clarity and focus it brings, “if only for a little while,” one of them laughed.

There's a woman on the ground belaying him down. She climbs next.

On the way back out I was so inspired I went off-trail and did some bouldering. This was probably not a wise decision, given that it’s easy to climb up to areas you can’t descend from or drop down into hollows between massive boulders and not be able to climb out. Being alone really compounds the concern. Having said that, I began getting just a sense of the clear, still mind demanded by the activity. I climb over, through and under a huge boulder field on my way out.

These are much larger than they appear. Note the tree in the lower right.

I had a bit of an epiphany that I lack activities like this in my life which bring clearness, focus and stillness to my mind. All of my other activities such as mountain biking or astronomy don’t force my brain to flush itself and snap into a different mode. Indeed, with cycling I can think away at work problems. Scuba diving 15 years ago was the last time I engaged in anything which really flushed my mind and brought desperately needed rest.

After I returned to the road I drove down to Cactus Garden. On the way down one really gets a sense of the altitude of the high country up above, because as you descend you can see the vast Pinto Basin below you. A visit here demands this drive. Then suddenly from out of nowhere you see a great expanse of Cholla Cactus. There are thousands of them, and they make a splendid appearance.

Cholla Cactus City

I drive back to Yucca Valley where I’m staying. This town is in desperate need of a sign ordinance because it is visually chaotic, and almost ugly. It’s very difficult to find something  you’re looking for as you’re driving. Or maybe my few days in the desert lowered my tolerance for such noise.

I make a mistake before closing down for the night and check my work email. Actually I’ve been doing that daily though this is the first time I received one which put me solidly back into a work frame of mind.

What tomorrow brings I will not decide until I awaken.

Departing Badwater I hike Natural Bridge. Part way in I encounter a walker left by the side of the trail. Further up is an elderly woman who takes a seat on a rock as I approach. “Is that yours?” I ask, motioning back down the hill to the walker. “Yes,” she said. “Shall I get it for you?” “No, I’ll get it on my way back down, thank you. My grandson is coming along to help me. It’s not as easy when you’re 90.” Ninety years old and she was hiking up this steep rocky trail.

Natural Bridge Trail, Death Valley

Continuing the drive north I go through “Artists Drive,” which showcases the multitudinous colors of the canyon walls. The stay at Stovepipe Wells Inn was unremarkable though I did meet a fellow amateur astronomer who had his solar observing scope set up. And a cute English girl from London.

The next morning as I drive the entire valley south along 178 to Shoshone I pass this beautiful fellow who was no doubt used to cars.

Desert Coyote

From Shoshone, 127 south to interstate 15. This was the most scenic part of all my drives so far. I was one of the only cars on the road and the vast, sweeping vistas made me think of other places in the world. I wondered if this landscape wasn’t the more common. Certainly the great steppes of Eurasia and much of Australia, South America, South Africa as well as the Middle East qualify as similar enough. I wondered if the great forests of the world weren’t less common.

A far too narrow visual window. This was the northern part of a much larger valley

I was midway along a 5 1/2 hour drive down to Yucca Valley and hadn’t played the radio in days. My mind began swimming along into strange places. My eyes were wholly unaccustomed to gazing on things so far away for so long. I started slipping into a bit of an anxious hypnotic state.

Turning southwest onto I-15 I received a rude awakening. All kinds of expensive cars went streaming past me at 85 mph, their drivers on cell phones and showing no sense of courtesy. I turn south onto 247, also designated on my Nat Geo Road Atlas Adventure Edition as a “Driving Tour.” After awhile the hills, although structurally the same as they have always been, begin to take on a greenish-yellow hue. They are covered with short scrub grass, something I had not seen yet.  They’re quite pretty, showing these signs of life.

Further along still I pass the Bernardino Mountains off to the West. I crest one final hill and suddenly spread out before me are wide valleys filled with Joshua Trees. I am nearing Yucca Valley which will be my gateway to Joshua Tree National Park. They are a welcome if not odd sight, dotting the landscape as though planted there by giants. There is an emotional quality to them which I explore. They seem to offer possibility and promise. Until now there was little doubt that if I entered the desert death would be a certain outcome. These trees offer resources in the way of fruit, shade and who knows what else. I wonder if the settlers of the West had the same emotion coming out of the Mojave desert. Perhaps that is why they ascribed a biblical name to them.

As the sun is going down I step out of my car and take advantage of the warm final rays of the day to compose this image. Tomorrow holds much promise.

Joshua Trees in the setting sun

Badwater, Death Valley. At nearly 300 feet below sea level it is the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere and the hottest place on earth. I hike far out into the salt flats, passing only a few others along the way. After taking some shots I lie down and doze for a bit, using my camera case as a pillow. When I sit back up I look around. The entire salt flat is empty; I am alone. The sense of solitude is palpable, the weather, though manageable, has a quality of oppressiveness to it.

It’s not the altitude. The Dead Sea is over a thousand feet lower. But I have been there in the summer and it’s not hostile like this place. In fact people swim in it. Here it is different. The proximity of the valley walls causes the air to continuously circulate, heating it ever higher. Here you can sense the danger. Here you will die quickly in the summer if left exposed.

I stand back up and hike out of this place.

Badwater in January. Hot.

I leave Las Vegas after early morning Mass at the Cathedral and head West for two and a half hours to investigate Death Valley. I’m reminded how remarkably different this landscape is from everything I’m used to. It feels like driving over the surface of the moon.

On the way to Pahrump, Nevada

After orienting myself at the visitor center I do a nearby two or three mile hike up a canyon. It’s unremarkable, especially compared to similar hikes at places like Zion or even in South Dakota. But it had its recompense in the form of a nice conversation I had with a woman from Alaska. The notable part of the day: the air temperature was 60 degrees but even in a T-shirt it feels at least 85. It’s a desert and the lowest place on the continent. I can’t imagine what it must feel like when the air temperature reaches 120.

On the drive back to Pahrump where I’m staying for the night I drive the 13 miles up to “Dante’s View,” since Fyodor’s says it’s not to be missed. True enough, it’s one of the most breathtaking views I’ve ever seen. It’s at the peak of a mountain top peering out over the entire Death Valley region, one mile below.

North View

West View

South View

I sit for an hour and take it all in, letting my mind begin to unwind its pent-up nervous energy. I think about what the man in the parking lot said to his wife. “It makes you realize how small you really are.” I don’t know why but it has the opposite effect on me. It doesn’t make me feel small, it makes my spirit soar. It reaffirms my belief that man’s spirit, capable of contemplating the most sublime wonders, is so much greater than the vista spread out before me. Whether you are a Christian or an unbelieving evolutionary biologist there is no doubt that man is the crowing achievement of either a creating God or an undesigned, random universe. Man is a wonder. Even before this marvelous sight, whenever someone walks by on the trail faces meet, smiles are exchanged, people spend time looking at one another. No, we are vastly greater mysteries than the rock salts below. We are ennobled standing high above; up here we seem to take our rightful place.

* * *

On the drive back through the desert to Pahrump I saw what appeared to be a statue someone erected far off the road to the left. As I got nearer it seemed to be of an old wizard, with robes, pointy hat and long flowing beard. As I came up to it the head turned and looked at me. It was an ancient old man leaning on a staff, out in the middle of nowhere, amidst the scrub bushes, dirt and rock. I’ve seen this man before, far up in the Vermont mountains, in the remote backcountry. I didn’t believe my eyes then and I didn’t now. But there are true mountain men that live as hermits up there, and obviously there are some down here too. I was tempted to turn around and get a picture of him with a zoom lens but after I thought about it I felt it would be rude. Who knows, maybe I was looking at my future.