greens and everwhite
lick the mountainside full of
cold. eager for more
I am of the mindset that TV is a mind-sucking, time-sink. I frequently get off my high horse to give my brain a rest and check out from reality. Tonight I swore I wasn’t going to do it. But then I rationalized that reading my completed book draft (my very LAST read before I actually and really send it out) required 100% of my attention, and not a split focus over dinner. So I gave in to temptation, and was rewarded with this bit of dialogue: If you feel fear start to rise, change it. Turn it into inspiration instead.
Okay. So that wasn’t the exact line, however it is the spirit of the line. I sat there, staring at the screen with a mouth full of food that I wasn’t chewing thinking, hell yes!
Since September 13th (for my entire life if I’m being honest), but particularly since then I have activated a process of intentional change. The lynchpin of this, aside from intense reflection, is to do one scary thing each week. It’s been as basic as walking up to a stranger and asking a question (a terrifying prospect for me). It’s been as ultimately satisfying as dance lessons.
What ever “it” is, each week I purposefully engage in a fear-inducing situation. My thought is that eventually, my relationship with those things that make me fearful will change. That eventually I’ll have a greater tolerance, and therefore be better able to handle challenges and embark on the adventures that make me sing.
The most recent “fear” installment was my afore mentioned trip to the desert. Originally I was going to be super badass and go by camping myself (thank you Heather and Rach for talking me OUT of this). Then I thought being the mastermind of the excursion was the fear-inducing bit. An hour and a half into my solo 4+ hour, ~9.5 mile hike (into the desert near dusk, mind you), I realized that was not it. WTF was I thinking?
A couple of disclaimers: most of this “hiking” was in the valley on jeep trails. I had a topo map and compass, and didn’t have to use them (so it wasn’t real hiking). I had food, and first aid, emergency shelter, and someone at base camp who was aware of where I was going and when I should be back.
The fear-inducing part? Being alone in the freaking desert.
At first, the landscape and the camera in my hands distracted me from everything. I love lighting and texture. I love seeing, aligning, and framing. I can lose myself in a viewfinder or darkroom. After a while, I noticed no one had passed me (the compact car full of people my Mom’s age (no offense, Mom) didn’t count). There were no sounds. Texture was all around me. The rocks. The cacti and shrubs. The tracks, and scat at my feet.
[Note: I’m a writer. My imagination is POWERFUL and has a will of its own.]
This was the playground of big horn sheep, ground rodents, and snakes. Coyotes, and mountain lions. Those last two? They’re predators. Not to mention crazy people who hole up in the desert. [Imagination. What can I say? I’m a little ashamed of it.] All around my feet were tracks I couldn’t identify. Some of them looked huge, like they belonged to a bear. Or anything weighing more than 300 pounds. My heart wasn’t exactly pounding, but I wasn’t at ease either. I believe the word was unsettled (around mile 4).
The most intense thing was being out there alone. The bee hive and the bird that surprised me induced little shrieks; however the absolute quiet and relative lack of another human was chilling. It’s the kind of quiet where you either find yourself, or lose yourself.
At a couple of points along the way, I thought about turning back without achieving my goal: seeing the pictographs. Instead, I stayed with the fear. I stayed with the solitude. I remained steadfast to the path. When I finally reached the trailhead, a thrill rushed through me. After another mile of more dubious, yet somehow more comforting trekking, I finally reached my goal. Red and yellow remnants of someone’s song, from somewhere in the past. Peace settled over me in that moment. Utter calm.
The desert is an inhospitable place. Driving out of the mountains, into the valley, the landscape transforms. The tall pines thin out, shrivel, and disappear. They yield to the oaks, and those fade too as the desert gets closer.
It sucks the moisture out of my body. My lips grow canyons and scales, and there isn’t enough lip balm to repair the damage, let alone keep it at bay. Even though it’s October, the sun is bright and hot in the sky. The act of scoping out a site, and setting up a tent is enough to make me sway with dizziness. Inhaling some food, and drinking massive amounts of water restore me a little. It’s time to go for a walk. I should have just enough time to get to where I want to go and return to camp by sunset.
Because my 4-cylinder Honda, with me driving it, couldn’t make it very far down the sandy roads, I have to hike 4 miles to the trailhead. Desolation surrounds me. A few scrubby and barren bushes pop up out of the dry lake bed. My eyes and my camera are ready.
I’ve found ancient fossilized shells before. I’ve found bone fragments and a skeleton torn into pieces. Little treasures. Sand and dirt and boulders make up the majority of the landscape. Ancient dry lake beds, oyster beds, sea floors. The macabre part of my personality gravitates toward things like skulls. The lifelessness of the desert. But is it really that bleak? A mile up the road, the landscape morphs. Cholla chokes the flat parts, and crawls up the hillside. Fields of agave erupt, and paint light green into the scene.
And then there’s the evidence of all the animals. Holes in the ground. Tracks littering the sand. Bits of scat everywhere. Desert lavender, cat’s claw, and a host of other desert shrubs and grasses spring up in the places that get more shade and water. It’s easy to see the lifelessness of the place. However,it’s anything but that.
There’s an immense amount of diversity here. Animals, birds, plants and insects specialize to the environment. Periods of famine exist, to be sure, but there are also times of abundance. And even in famine, the scrappiest little bush has the—I guess I’ll call them skills or programming—to survive, wait out the scarce times and come back stronger.
It strikes me this is also a metaphor for the human experience. My human experience. And a reminder. I could perceive certain times of my life (example, the present) as proverbial deserts. Such times are not wastelands. They are closer to the desert I experienced this past weekend. Even though some things are lacking in my life, there is a flood of wonderful things. Friends, adventures, creativity. And a huge amount of personal growth.
So, these lessons from the desert: We can encounter times of stress, and be motived by them; grow in ways we couldn’t have imagine. We have the capacity to adapt, and answer challenges creatively. And we are stronger than we know.
Throughout my life, I’ve fancied myself to be that girl who’s sweet on the outside, but tough and independent to the core. Adamantium bones, diamond hard teeth, and a gaze that can cut like a laser.
Well, last weekend I went on a little adventure. Camping. It went quite well. My tent didn’t fly away. I didn’t run out of food or water. There were some steep inclines and chasms, but I navigated all those without incident. I even delighted when I spotted the skull. It was in a protected wash. Besides ours, there weren’t many footprints. We stepped over rocky ledge and nestled just there, between the hard of rock and soft of sand, was a dainty bleached out skull. Frayed fibers peeled away from the eye sockets. I was down on my knees and elbows when the other parts were found. “Here’s a leg!” “Here’s a spine!!”
I clicked away and scrambled over to the next site. The legs were 3-4 feet apart. One hind leg, and this fore leg. I’ve seen bone fragments on hikes, skulls in museums, but nothing like this. This was so… real. I mean, look at this leg. There’s still fur on it. Soft and silky, it shags along the shaft of the bone on down until it reaches that little hoof.
The spine. Was. Amazing. It was tucked away inside a crevice, shaded from the elements. It was easy to imagine a coyote, or mountain lion taking a midday meal here, gnawing lazily on the ribs.
The rest of the day and into the night I was groovin’ on this find. It was, for me, like the discovery of a treasure. And then came bedtime. Apparently I had been feeling anti-social when I set up my tent far away from everyone else’s, in a little alcove nestled against a hill of dried mud and between two bushes. Even after drugging myself, I laid in my sleeping bag, wide awake. I tried to rationalize away the sounds. That rustling was just the wind rubbing the rainfly rubbing the tent. And that trickling sound was just pebbles rolling down the hillside… after being dislodged by the mountain lion stalking me! Not to mention the desert rats pacing outside my tent, dying to nibble on my deodorant and coyotes waiting to steal my Nalgene bottles.
It took a lot of convincing to get up in the dark dangerous hours of the early morning to empty my bladder. Of course I examined the area around my tent, scanned the landscape for the eery reflection of predatory eyes. What did I find? A big fat nothing. I lost a night of sleep to the wind and my ridiculous overactive imagination (fitting, I know). I also lost that illusion I’d built of myself. No, I’m not Wolverine’s long lost sister.
With all this loss, it is important to remember that I did actually gain something. Self-knowledge, and more than that, acceptance.
Nature. Outdoors. Hiking and camping. That stuff always fascinated me. Hiking was (and still is) my refuge. Spending time in nature redraws problems. Draws back the veil or lights them differently. They don’t magically go away, but a little bit of perspective doesn’t hurt.
Camping has not been quite as accessible for me as hiking. Being a chick, going alone doesn’t seem like an intelligent option. My current cadre of friends, in general, aren’t really into that, especially the kind of trips that capture my attention the most. Primitive camping and backpacking. In July 2010, I did find a group of random strangers to camp with, which is the origin of this photo. [A special thanks to Tom, Suzy, Jesse, and Tracy.]
This is a bristlecone pine in the White Mountains in California. Aside from haphazardly exploring some mine shafts and conquering the biggest elevation gain of my fumbling hiking career, we spent half a day in this ancient forest. The landscape is austere, to say the least. The mountains, as you might guess from their name, are comprised of white and grey stone. Some of it is so broken up, it looks like the product of glaciation.
I might be mistaken, but if I remember right, these trees constitute the oldest living things on the planet. Methuselah is the most anciet tree, not only in the grove, but in the world. 4750 years of rooting into the ground, feeling the wind tumble over it, thirsting sometimes more and sometimes less.
The trees here are a strange mix of underwhelming and supernatural. They don’t just grow. They twist and curl and spire. Some trees look dead, with only a few sprigs of green, but really this is just an example of their amazing adaptability. Bristlecones are judicious and miserly with their resources. The hue of their skin hovers between a grey pallor, like their surroundings, and a delicious warm glow.
The underwhelming feelings fades the further along the trail you go. The groves are quiet, except for the birds calling. The trees thrive on rock. Coming to understand their environment imbues a respect for these beings. They are survivors. And beyond that, they are history’s sentinels. Think of the last 4000 years. This of ALL that has happened in that 4000 years. The trees that surround you have stood through it, breathed it and drank it. That is magic.
Calcium sulfate dihydrate.
Gypsum that is.
This photo was taken on a brief backcountry camping trip to White Sands National Monument. And it’s film, not digital, taken at night.
I was both thrilled and creeped out by the notion that the park is sometimes closed due to “missile testing”. The prospect of sleeping on the opalescent dunes under the full moon enticed me just as much. We arrived with enough time to register, schlep all the stuff from the car to the site, then to roam around the white giants. Cameras in hand, a place like this evokes a certain eagerness. There is the experience in itself. Just being there can be magical. Looking at it through the lens is something altogether different, though.
You start to notice the shape of things, soft curves and jagged edges. The way the clouds smatter the sky, the contrast of the mountains in the distance. And even more than the shape of landscape is the kiss of light. Highlights and shadows and everything in between.
At sunset, the sky blazed yellow and bright red before it faded to blue, violet. Black. And still, the dunes shimmered in the darkness, picked up bits of light pollution, and reflected the intense glow of the moon. Beckoning.