Santa Fe-- last city of our trip and our final stop in the West before we headed back home. We rolled into town bedraggled, barely fed, and in desperate need of a shower. Once we got to the hostel we took care of the essentials immediately-- coffee and a hot water shower. I never appreciated central heating more in my entire life.
On our first day there a snowstorm, rolling over the Midwest all the way down to sunny New Mexico, settled over Santa Fe. Determined to see the city we asked a hostel employee whether the distance was walkable. The employee, a woman with wild blond hair who seemed like she had taken one too may smiley faced tablets back in the day, spaced out and said "It's a mile. Yeah." So we walked. Twenty minutes later, walking alongside a busy road boarded with KFCs and tacky tourist outposts, it become obvious that it was much father than a mile.
We were covered in soft snow flurries when we finally spotted Santa Fe, an organic outgrowth of earth colored adobe set before the mountains, a wall of towering darkness swirling with snow. We spent the day Christmas hunting, wandering from shop to shop, from tourist holes to collector galleries with crackling fireplaces and worn wooden floors. We reached the infamous plaza but it was ghostly empty. Where pan flute bands and ice cream vendors once wove into a summertime din, snow fell on a few hungry workers trying to pin evergreen around the glowing street lamps. A small line of Native people lined the front of the Governor's palace. Each brave vendor that had stayed on through the snow was wrapped in layers of brightly patterned blankets. We wandered down the line until the snow drifted even more thickly under the eaves and the artists covered their work with blankets and plastic sheets, talking to one another in a language that sounded like a thousand years of stones smoothed by sand.
We drifted into the cathedral and watched an attendant replace the burnt out candles on the altar. Despite the gray clouds of snow streaking the windows, the strained glass glowed like fire. Even though it was still the afternoon, the snow turned the sky twilight. It fell so thickly now shops began to close their old wooden doors, cars faded into the distance and we began to look as if we were carrying strings of white lights in our hair.
There was nothing left to do but watch the snow fall onto the adobe, gathering in little hills on turquoise window sills.
We trekked back to the hostel to make dinner. After we filled our bellies we asked yet another hostel employee whether a redbox to rent movies was within walking distance. Not having learned our lesson the first time, we went back out into the snow. A hour and a half later, when we arrived back at the hostel, our feet were wet with slush and the cold I'd been fighting off had finally settled into my lungs.
We watched a movie on Seb's computer and it felt wonderful to just relax...for once, even though Sebastian was thoroughly creeped out by our bare walled room and the long term residents of the hostel, one of which wore a hunting-themed onesie everyday. He swore that the room must have been the inspiration for the movie "Hostel." But it was warm and it was all ours, so I wasn't complaining. We forced down the cheapest bottle of wine we could find at Wholefoods, a wind labeled Boonaroo that tasted more like aged baboon butt.
The next day we braved the still icy roads, realizing too late that New Mexicans have absolutely no idea how to deal with snow. We were some of the only visitors at the Indian Arts and Culture Museum. We left at sunset and went back into town to see the plaza, newly strung with multicolored Christmas lights. We left soon afterward and drove slowly across the still icy roads to Maria's, a restaurant known for its new Mexican cuisine and delicious margaritas. I ate blue corn enchiladas and licked salt off the rim of my margaritas and as I did the ice, the bare, flickering light bulb of our hostel room, and the many miles that still lay ahead of us seemed far away. At least for the moment.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Amazing Overload
It finally happened. On yet another mind blowing scenic drive from Zion to Capitol Reef National Park in Utah Sebastian and I lost our minds. After almost three months it seemed as though all the space in our brain reserved for amazing, life changing sights had been filled to the point of violent explosion.
We just couldn't do it anymore. We couldn't absorb one more awe-inspiring thing. That was it, we were done with the incredible-- just give us something commonplace, something boring!
We rode into Capitol Reef in the dark and found the campsite completely empty. Not a single other person. We wondered at this until we stepped out of the car and the biting cold of the air slapped the grins right off our faces.
It was freezing. Colder than Yellowstone, colder than Zion, colder than anywhere we'd camped before. Without a thermometer we wondered just how cold it was. Surely it couldn't be that much colder than Yellowstone, where the temperature had dropped down to twelve degrees one night.
We made diner and shoveled it down, fighting over the pot for warmth. I piled every blanket, every coat, every available plush piece of clothing or towel on top of us and then we climbed into our sleeping bags. It was a long, aching night. The old got into our muscles, making our limbs feel like dead wood. We moved as one single being, avoiding the cold outskirts of the sleeping bag. In the morning we woke up to find that the vapor of our breath had frozen into a thin sheet on top of the sleeping bags. We slithered out of the tent feeling like some sort of monsters from the crypt. Sebastian made tea and plunked his teabag onto the picnic table, only to find a few minutes later that it had frozen like stone to the metal.
Soon a happy-go-lucky camp ranger came by and struck up a conversation. We asked her how cold it had been the previous night. She thought for a second and then replied with a smile-- "Probably round five degrees.. kinda cold, huh?" We just stared at her. As she got back into her running truck she started to pull away and then stopped. "Hey" she called out of the window "do you two like coffee and hot chocolate and other warm things?" We both nodded and walked numbly towards the car, expectant as puppies. "Well," she replied "there's a nice cafe about ten miles away in town!" and then she drove away.
Someone else's sunny disposition never seemed so cruel.
We spent the day shuffling from sight to sight. We drove through the crusty mountains of orange, white, and red stone for which Capitol Reef was named. We hiked along a ridge of ancient petroglyphs-- images of shamans and headdresses, big horned sheep running before bows and elegant, mystical shapes that remain nameless. Beyond these there was a rock carved with the names of the first Mormon settlers, the same settlers who used over one thousand year old irrigation ditches to water their orchards, orchards which still grow heavy with fruit in the valley summer sun.
At the end of the day we drove out to Sunset Point and watched the light fade with a last, dying ember from the mountains beyond. Somehow, and I will never know how, we'd found a little extra space in our brains for yet another beautiful sunset and it had the same effect on me as the dawn. Suddenly, everything seemed to be illuminated, drenched yet again in the sunlight of our unbelievable fortune.
We are two lucky sons-of-bitches and in that moment, like so many other moments before, we couldn't deny it.
We just couldn't do it anymore. We couldn't absorb one more awe-inspiring thing. That was it, we were done with the incredible-- just give us something commonplace, something boring!
We rode into Capitol Reef in the dark and found the campsite completely empty. Not a single other person. We wondered at this until we stepped out of the car and the biting cold of the air slapped the grins right off our faces.
It was freezing. Colder than Yellowstone, colder than Zion, colder than anywhere we'd camped before. Without a thermometer we wondered just how cold it was. Surely it couldn't be that much colder than Yellowstone, where the temperature had dropped down to twelve degrees one night.
We made diner and shoveled it down, fighting over the pot for warmth. I piled every blanket, every coat, every available plush piece of clothing or towel on top of us and then we climbed into our sleeping bags. It was a long, aching night. The old got into our muscles, making our limbs feel like dead wood. We moved as one single being, avoiding the cold outskirts of the sleeping bag. In the morning we woke up to find that the vapor of our breath had frozen into a thin sheet on top of the sleeping bags. We slithered out of the tent feeling like some sort of monsters from the crypt. Sebastian made tea and plunked his teabag onto the picnic table, only to find a few minutes later that it had frozen like stone to the metal.
Soon a happy-go-lucky camp ranger came by and struck up a conversation. We asked her how cold it had been the previous night. She thought for a second and then replied with a smile-- "Probably round five degrees.. kinda cold, huh?" We just stared at her. As she got back into her running truck she started to pull away and then stopped. "Hey" she called out of the window "do you two like coffee and hot chocolate and other warm things?" We both nodded and walked numbly towards the car, expectant as puppies. "Well," she replied "there's a nice cafe about ten miles away in town!" and then she drove away.
Someone else's sunny disposition never seemed so cruel.
We spent the day shuffling from sight to sight. We drove through the crusty mountains of orange, white, and red stone for which Capitol Reef was named. We hiked along a ridge of ancient petroglyphs-- images of shamans and headdresses, big horned sheep running before bows and elegant, mystical shapes that remain nameless. Beyond these there was a rock carved with the names of the first Mormon settlers, the same settlers who used over one thousand year old irrigation ditches to water their orchards, orchards which still grow heavy with fruit in the valley summer sun.
At the end of the day we drove out to Sunset Point and watched the light fade with a last, dying ember from the mountains beyond. Somehow, and I will never know how, we'd found a little extra space in our brains for yet another beautiful sunset and it had the same effect on me as the dawn. Suddenly, everything seemed to be illuminated, drenched yet again in the sunlight of our unbelievable fortune.
We are two lucky sons-of-bitches and in that moment, like so many other moments before, we couldn't deny it.
A Place Called Zion
After spending over a month in California we finally crossed the border into Nevada to start the final trek back east. We glided through the desert, the dark punctuated every once in a while by the glow of billboards. We drove straight through the slim strip of Las Vegas, a beating electric heart in the middle of endless desert. We ate our last meal of the blessed In-N-Out and then we were on our way.
We woke up the next morning in the canyons of Western Utah, in a national part that is so stunning the zealous Mormons of yesteryear named it Zion. Over the course of millions of years howling wind, storm, and flood have carved this vast canyon out of the high desert. In a land defined by its dusty thirst, water has shaped everything you see around you. The red rock canyons are etched and checkered, broken or folded into arches and spires. You look up at the towering, sculpted cliffs and everything you are seems to be invaded by time, a long, rumbling, stretch that always seems to be unraveling far beyond your reach.
Our first day in the park we drove a long, winding road paved across a vista of sandstone to Kolob canyons. We stepped out at the overlook. There was not another person in sight, only large bobcat prints in the snow that led towards the cliff and its panorama of living mountains. After a short hike over fields of yellowing grass to another panoramic view, we drove through the brilliant desert sunset back to our campsite.
Our hopes for a slightly warmer night were quickly dashed and we hurried to make our beans and rice so that we could sit in the car, blast the heat, and write some postcards. After hiding in the car for close to an hour we finally dragged ourselves out and began the frantic nightly ritual of running to the tent, ripping off our shoes ad coats and racing the rapidly closing in cold. Once we're in the sleeping bags, still wearing the marshmallow man layers of the day, we stick to one another like fly paper and refuse to move. Needless to say, the honey light of mornings came every day like a holy miracle.
We launched ourselves at the limited hours of daylight and tried to see as much as humanly possible. We walked beside the silver curves of the virgin river, an ironic name for the body of water responsible for the creation of all these towering cliffs. We hiked into a hidden canyon, part of the deathly beautiful narrows, where if you were to get caught in a flash flood, you'd be ripped off the ground and carried away as easily as a small weed on the face of a rock. We drove and hiked and hiked and drove from one panoramic view to another and by the end of our last day we were exhausted but there was one last hike to go, and we were both steeled in our intention to do it-- Angels Landing.
Angels Landing itself is an outcrop of rock perched on a slim cliff that rises over 1,500 feet from the canyon floor. Apparently if angels were to land anywhere in Zion I'd be on this precarious monument. I believe it.
The morning we were to leave Zion we hiked the trail, climbing higher and higher over the dawn-colored valley. Shafts of early morning light were just beginning to pierce the canyon floor and we both felt ready for this infamously strenuous hike. We got to the last half mile of the trail and took a deep breath. Before us was a layer of signs showing people falling to their doom and beyond that, a desperate line of thick chains anchored into crumbling rock leading straight up the face of the cliff.
We slunk up that last half mile with the fear of God in us. We held onto those chains as if they were our last, tenuous umbilical chords connecting us to life and tried not to look to either side of the narrow sliver of stone. Just beyond both feet the rock broke away into a dramatic drop of over 1,000 feet. I crawled like a baby.
When we finally reached the top, knees shaking, we were so far above everything you could hear only silence. We congratulated ourselves for getting up early enough that no one else was at the top and we began to walk across the flat stone to the end of the precipice and then, suddenly, we realized we were wrong. Perched at the end of the cliff was an enormous California condor. The condor, an endangered species, is rarely ever glimpsed but here he was, a large hulking animal that seemed to be perched on the edge of some prehistoric time. He was watching the valley in utter silence, just the wind ruffling the thicket of feathers around his neck. We approached slowly, not wanting to frighten a bird that stood as tall as my hips. He merely watched us, quiet, patient, unfazed. We got to the end of the cliff and then it was just the three of us, gazing out over the silent, glowing valley. As we sat there I couldn't help but wonder for how many millenia condors have flown up to this very spot over the valley watching and knowing something about the world that we're still struggling to understand. Sitting there, time itself seemed to loosen like sand and slip quietly away from us.
The condor watched us as we left and began the cautious descent. I scooted most of the way down on my butt, utterly forgetting about any notion of looking cool and just praying that I'd see another sunrise. When we got to the end of the death trap we met a fellow hiker, who casually informed up that a woman had died last week coming down from the landing. We both did a silent prayer in gratitude for hearing this lovely fact after we had crawled back down.
We left the valley late that afternoon, pausing every once in a while to look back at the sky high city of stone, knowing that with every passing wind, every new flood, the valley itself would bend and bow, transforming into new and ever changing sculptures of time. Somehow, it was all so comforting.
We woke up the next morning in the canyons of Western Utah, in a national part that is so stunning the zealous Mormons of yesteryear named it Zion. Over the course of millions of years howling wind, storm, and flood have carved this vast canyon out of the high desert. In a land defined by its dusty thirst, water has shaped everything you see around you. The red rock canyons are etched and checkered, broken or folded into arches and spires. You look up at the towering, sculpted cliffs and everything you are seems to be invaded by time, a long, rumbling, stretch that always seems to be unraveling far beyond your reach.
Our first day in the park we drove a long, winding road paved across a vista of sandstone to Kolob canyons. We stepped out at the overlook. There was not another person in sight, only large bobcat prints in the snow that led towards the cliff and its panorama of living mountains. After a short hike over fields of yellowing grass to another panoramic view, we drove through the brilliant desert sunset back to our campsite.
Our hopes for a slightly warmer night were quickly dashed and we hurried to make our beans and rice so that we could sit in the car, blast the heat, and write some postcards. After hiding in the car for close to an hour we finally dragged ourselves out and began the frantic nightly ritual of running to the tent, ripping off our shoes ad coats and racing the rapidly closing in cold. Once we're in the sleeping bags, still wearing the marshmallow man layers of the day, we stick to one another like fly paper and refuse to move. Needless to say, the honey light of mornings came every day like a holy miracle.
We launched ourselves at the limited hours of daylight and tried to see as much as humanly possible. We walked beside the silver curves of the virgin river, an ironic name for the body of water responsible for the creation of all these towering cliffs. We hiked into a hidden canyon, part of the deathly beautiful narrows, where if you were to get caught in a flash flood, you'd be ripped off the ground and carried away as easily as a small weed on the face of a rock. We drove and hiked and hiked and drove from one panoramic view to another and by the end of our last day we were exhausted but there was one last hike to go, and we were both steeled in our intention to do it-- Angels Landing.
Angels Landing itself is an outcrop of rock perched on a slim cliff that rises over 1,500 feet from the canyon floor. Apparently if angels were to land anywhere in Zion I'd be on this precarious monument. I believe it.
The morning we were to leave Zion we hiked the trail, climbing higher and higher over the dawn-colored valley. Shafts of early morning light were just beginning to pierce the canyon floor and we both felt ready for this infamously strenuous hike. We got to the last half mile of the trail and took a deep breath. Before us was a layer of signs showing people falling to their doom and beyond that, a desperate line of thick chains anchored into crumbling rock leading straight up the face of the cliff.
We slunk up that last half mile with the fear of God in us. We held onto those chains as if they were our last, tenuous umbilical chords connecting us to life and tried not to look to either side of the narrow sliver of stone. Just beyond both feet the rock broke away into a dramatic drop of over 1,000 feet. I crawled like a baby.
When we finally reached the top, knees shaking, we were so far above everything you could hear only silence. We congratulated ourselves for getting up early enough that no one else was at the top and we began to walk across the flat stone to the end of the precipice and then, suddenly, we realized we were wrong. Perched at the end of the cliff was an enormous California condor. The condor, an endangered species, is rarely ever glimpsed but here he was, a large hulking animal that seemed to be perched on the edge of some prehistoric time. He was watching the valley in utter silence, just the wind ruffling the thicket of feathers around his neck. We approached slowly, not wanting to frighten a bird that stood as tall as my hips. He merely watched us, quiet, patient, unfazed. We got to the end of the cliff and then it was just the three of us, gazing out over the silent, glowing valley. As we sat there I couldn't help but wonder for how many millenia condors have flown up to this very spot over the valley watching and knowing something about the world that we're still struggling to understand. Sitting there, time itself seemed to loosen like sand and slip quietly away from us.
The condor watched us as we left and began the cautious descent. I scooted most of the way down on my butt, utterly forgetting about any notion of looking cool and just praying that I'd see another sunrise. When we got to the end of the death trap we met a fellow hiker, who casually informed up that a woman had died last week coming down from the landing. We both did a silent prayer in gratitude for hearing this lovely fact after we had crawled back down.
We left the valley late that afternoon, pausing every once in a while to look back at the sky high city of stone, knowing that with every passing wind, every new flood, the valley itself would bend and bow, transforming into new and ever changing sculptures of time. Somehow, it was all so comforting.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Thanksgiving Journey
We went to Venice beach for sunset. Just as the sun was slipping beneath the horizon of water Seb gathered up his courage and jumped into the freezing Pacific. After he ran out and shivered his way to the car we headed to UCLA for one last night of college. We left the next day as soon as Kira had finished her last class and then we all squeezed into our already-packed car and settled in for the long journey to Redding, California where Seb's family lives. After ten hours of traffic we arrived and collapsed.
The next day we woke up and the festivities began. We helped to peel potatoes and crumble bread for the infamous Jindra family stuffing recipe. Soon Seb's aunt and unlce's house was teeming with people. Every one was getting their cheeks pinched, their picture taken, and their drinks topped off. It was a Thanksgiving dinner of epic proportions. We had a great time hugging his grandma (who had protected her cocktail like a ninja and was now the life of the party), drinking vino, and stuffing ourselves silly. We slept like babies.
Over the next couple days we were handed off from family to family, veritably bombarded with food and love. We played many rounds of chicken foot, my new favorite game, and watched tons of mediocre tv. We visited the majestic Mount Shasta, had a snow sculpture contest, and got hot apple cider from a bookstore in town. After the long weekend, which included a venture into the wilds of the mall on black friday, I was ready for the next leg of the journey. We left Redding full from a massive sunday brunch in a shiny, new clean car.
We spent the next ten hours crawling through holiday traffic. Finally we arrived at Calarts and the three of us stayed with Archie for a night. The next afternoon, when we woke up at 1:30, we went out for sushi in Beverly hills. Seb and I dropped Kira back off at UCLA and said goodbye and, although it seemed as though we wouldn't see her for a long time, when we counted the days we realized we'd both be back home in just over two weeks. So short a time and so many miles still to go. We journeyed back to Calarts that night and had another great evening hanging out with Archie and his roommate Pooja. I made rice crispy treats that turned out more like banana-flavored marshmallow mush and passed out while watching an episode of planet earth set to play over Miles Davis' "On the Corner."
The next morning Seb and I woke up to a new month. It was December first and we were about to set out on the last part of our journey. After almost three months we were turning east and heading back home. We were ready.
The next day we woke up and the festivities began. We helped to peel potatoes and crumble bread for the infamous Jindra family stuffing recipe. Soon Seb's aunt and unlce's house was teeming with people. Every one was getting their cheeks pinched, their picture taken, and their drinks topped off. It was a Thanksgiving dinner of epic proportions. We had a great time hugging his grandma (who had protected her cocktail like a ninja and was now the life of the party), drinking vino, and stuffing ourselves silly. We slept like babies.
Over the next couple days we were handed off from family to family, veritably bombarded with food and love. We played many rounds of chicken foot, my new favorite game, and watched tons of mediocre tv. We visited the majestic Mount Shasta, had a snow sculpture contest, and got hot apple cider from a bookstore in town. After the long weekend, which included a venture into the wilds of the mall on black friday, I was ready for the next leg of the journey. We left Redding full from a massive sunday brunch in a shiny, new clean car.
We spent the next ten hours crawling through holiday traffic. Finally we arrived at Calarts and the three of us stayed with Archie for a night. The next afternoon, when we woke up at 1:30, we went out for sushi in Beverly hills. Seb and I dropped Kira back off at UCLA and said goodbye and, although it seemed as though we wouldn't see her for a long time, when we counted the days we realized we'd both be back home in just over two weeks. So short a time and so many miles still to go. We journeyed back to Calarts that night and had another great evening hanging out with Archie and his roommate Pooja. I made rice crispy treats that turned out more like banana-flavored marshmallow mush and passed out while watching an episode of planet earth set to play over Miles Davis' "On the Corner."
The next morning Seb and I woke up to a new month. It was December first and we were about to set out on the last part of our journey. After almost three months we were turning east and heading back home. We were ready.
Trees in the Desert
For five hours we wound back down through the mountains. Listening to the epic finale of Lord of the Rings as we drove steadily down south and back into the desert. We pulled out of the neon lights of the desert suburbs and into Joshua tree late that night. We set up our tent in between the smooth curves of two massive boulders. The coyotes called to one another in a flurry of yelps. A straggler nearby howled out to the din and we fell asleep to the wild echos. In the morning we drove out into the open road of the park. We hiked a few trails and stumbled upon boulders with ancient mortars carved into their faces. I could reach my whole forearm into the deep holes, the smooth walls sloping to a point. I couldn't help but wonder, how long did these desert people grind flour into these stones, how many millenia does it take to turn so much stone to dust?
We wandered around the mazes of cholla cactus, a cactus that grows woolly and tall with age, slowing turning a deep earth color so that the tall spiky plants flows from a glowing sunlit color ever darker until it reaches the ground. We drove through the miles of Joshua trees. Often called grotesque or bizarre, Joshua trees (actually a species of Yucca) are unlike anything you've ever seen. They grow straight up from the ground, inch by inch, year by year, sometimes for decades, until that one golden spring when they flower and then the branches are released. The arms grow outward, wild and without reason. They twist like snakes, slithering and curling towards their sharp ends. The trees seem to move in the sun, writhing like Medusas in heat. Desert animals of all kinds take refuge within the bent trees. Some birds even use the sharp spikes to impale their prey. After hours of driving through this thicket of arms Sebastian was inspired to create a Joshua tree yoga pose. The pose consists of balancing on one foot and then twisting your other three limbs into any craze posistion you can think of. It's perfect.
That night we drove up to Keys mountain to watch the sunset. The wind had kicked up and it swept so strongly across the peak people were running from their cars to the overlook and then back as quickly as possible. From inside our car seb and I laughed at the transformation from person to wind-laden marshmallows running for their lives....and then we stepped out of the car. At first we tried to walk, but soon we were running too, struggling to stay upright in the wind. It felt as if the wind could have peeled our feet straight from the ground.
We drove back to our campsite with the sun settling down into the arms of the Joshua trees and the wind ripping dust from the earth. That night the wind banged and shook every corner of our tent and I prayed the whole thing wouldn't take flight like some demented kite. Our neighbors camping chair blew into the glowing embers of their fire and, luckily, Seb spotted the blazing chair when he crawled back out of the tent to wrestle with our fly. He slammed the burning chair into the cool stone of the ground to put it out and, in the howl of the wind, we both prayed we'd make it to see another morning.
When we awoke the wind had died down and the burnt remains of the chair had mercifully laid dormant. We took the morning to do a few more hikes, stretching our legs across hidden canyons and scaling boulders to explore a rocky cove covered in petroglyphs. On our last hike we struggled up to the top of Ryan mountain and stared our over the expansive desert, the stacked jumble of granite where hillsides once had been, the mountains crumbling slowly to dust, the Joshua trees kneeling down beneath it all with open arms.
Far off in the distance we could see the tell-tale signs of our next location, blurring out the distance. Smog and light. We were heading back to L.A.
We wandered around the mazes of cholla cactus, a cactus that grows woolly and tall with age, slowing turning a deep earth color so that the tall spiky plants flows from a glowing sunlit color ever darker until it reaches the ground. We drove through the miles of Joshua trees. Often called grotesque or bizarre, Joshua trees (actually a species of Yucca) are unlike anything you've ever seen. They grow straight up from the ground, inch by inch, year by year, sometimes for decades, until that one golden spring when they flower and then the branches are released. The arms grow outward, wild and without reason. They twist like snakes, slithering and curling towards their sharp ends. The trees seem to move in the sun, writhing like Medusas in heat. Desert animals of all kinds take refuge within the bent trees. Some birds even use the sharp spikes to impale their prey. After hours of driving through this thicket of arms Sebastian was inspired to create a Joshua tree yoga pose. The pose consists of balancing on one foot and then twisting your other three limbs into any craze posistion you can think of. It's perfect.
That night we drove up to Keys mountain to watch the sunset. The wind had kicked up and it swept so strongly across the peak people were running from their cars to the overlook and then back as quickly as possible. From inside our car seb and I laughed at the transformation from person to wind-laden marshmallows running for their lives....and then we stepped out of the car. At first we tried to walk, but soon we were running too, struggling to stay upright in the wind. It felt as if the wind could have peeled our feet straight from the ground.
We drove back to our campsite with the sun settling down into the arms of the Joshua trees and the wind ripping dust from the earth. That night the wind banged and shook every corner of our tent and I prayed the whole thing wouldn't take flight like some demented kite. Our neighbors camping chair blew into the glowing embers of their fire and, luckily, Seb spotted the blazing chair when he crawled back out of the tent to wrestle with our fly. He slammed the burning chair into the cool stone of the ground to put it out and, in the howl of the wind, we both prayed we'd make it to see another morning.
When we awoke the wind had died down and the burnt remains of the chair had mercifully laid dormant. We took the morning to do a few more hikes, stretching our legs across hidden canyons and scaling boulders to explore a rocky cove covered in petroglyphs. On our last hike we struggled up to the top of Ryan mountain and stared our over the expansive desert, the stacked jumble of granite where hillsides once had been, the mountains crumbling slowly to dust, the Joshua trees kneeling down beneath it all with open arms.
Far off in the distance we could see the tell-tale signs of our next location, blurring out the distance. Smog and light. We were heading back to L.A.
The Edge of a Wilderness
Another day-long journey. We woke up with the sunrise in Death valley and said goodbye to the red winter heat. We headed back east, stopping to drive through the dusty relics of an old frontier ghost town and speeding up to get through the bordering cities of uranium smoke stacks and chain-link motels. We'd taken the old timers' advice and turned off onto the scenic route through lake Isabella. We curved alongside a wide silver river and slung our heads out the window to see the rare tree changing to gold in the fall air. Joshua trees and cacti twisted up out of the dry rocks and every once in a while an old truck would speed past us down the road. We passed through the valley, across the endless fields of oranges and pulled into Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Park at sunset.
The next day we wandered through the park. We hiked to the top of Moro rock and surveyed the layers upon layers of mountains. The Sierra Nevadas blended into the navy sky and stretched out beyond the scope of our eyes. The valley at their feet ran wider and deeper than the grand canyon, though the thicket of green carpets the depths. Before us, reaching out for miles and miles, was one of the last remaining wildernesses.
We did loops through the silver forest, peeking out into the meadows. We explored an old Sequoia trunk that had once been a small hobbit home to a rancher in the early 1900s. We crawled up into rock crevices to gaze at ancient petroglyphs and finally we made our way to visit the namesake of the park-- the sequoias. The humongous trees stood as high as sky scrapers, as wide as anchors, and as heavy as ten blue whales. Thousands of years old, the sequoias are mammoths of time. Their bark, resistant to insect, fire, and claw, feels soft and furry underneath your hand and their massive broccoli tops tower above the treeline.
The next day we hiked down through a closed camping ground to the John Muir grove trail. Fog had rolled in from the mountains and as we began to walk through the forest, a soft bank of white enveloped the trees. We didn't see another living person, we heard only the sighing of fog and our feet on the ground. After a few hours of hiking through the slender moss covered trees we reached Muir's grove. We stumbled out from the path and up to the looming giants like one would stumble unexpectedly onto a great canyon. The vastness seems to swell up and take you. We threaded in and out of the wide trunks, flowing with the thick of the fog. We hiked back in silence and by the time we reached the road the fog had evaporated into pure afternoon sunshine.
Before sunset we drove out to the end of the road. From the car side overlooks we peered out into the wilds of Kings Canyons. Beyond the road there lay millions of acres of wilderness, accessible only by foot or wing. Looking out into the folds of mountain, stream, and tree I struggled to keep myself still. There was something about the untouched miles that called out to that wild, running thing in all of us and it was all I could do to keep from leaping off into the thick tangle of green.
The next day we wandered through the park. We hiked to the top of Moro rock and surveyed the layers upon layers of mountains. The Sierra Nevadas blended into the navy sky and stretched out beyond the scope of our eyes. The valley at their feet ran wider and deeper than the grand canyon, though the thicket of green carpets the depths. Before us, reaching out for miles and miles, was one of the last remaining wildernesses.
We did loops through the silver forest, peeking out into the meadows. We explored an old Sequoia trunk that had once been a small hobbit home to a rancher in the early 1900s. We crawled up into rock crevices to gaze at ancient petroglyphs and finally we made our way to visit the namesake of the park-- the sequoias. The humongous trees stood as high as sky scrapers, as wide as anchors, and as heavy as ten blue whales. Thousands of years old, the sequoias are mammoths of time. Their bark, resistant to insect, fire, and claw, feels soft and furry underneath your hand and their massive broccoli tops tower above the treeline.
The next day we hiked down through a closed camping ground to the John Muir grove trail. Fog had rolled in from the mountains and as we began to walk through the forest, a soft bank of white enveloped the trees. We didn't see another living person, we heard only the sighing of fog and our feet on the ground. After a few hours of hiking through the slender moss covered trees we reached Muir's grove. We stumbled out from the path and up to the looming giants like one would stumble unexpectedly onto a great canyon. The vastness seems to swell up and take you. We threaded in and out of the wide trunks, flowing with the thick of the fog. We hiked back in silence and by the time we reached the road the fog had evaporated into pure afternoon sunshine.
Before sunset we drove out to the end of the road. From the car side overlooks we peered out into the wilds of Kings Canyons. Beyond the road there lay millions of acres of wilderness, accessible only by foot or wing. Looking out into the folds of mountain, stream, and tree I struggled to keep myself still. There was something about the untouched miles that called out to that wild, running thing in all of us and it was all I could do to keep from leaping off into the thick tangle of green.
Death Valley
We drove south past Sequoia and Kings Canyon, down through Bakersfield and east into the desert. As the night fell more darkly the stars paraded out. From the window I could see Orion in all his regalia for the first time. A shooting star streaked through the invisible arc of his bow and after an hour of twisting around vistas lost in a dark jumble of sky, we arrived in Death Valley.
We set up our tent in the still silence and crawled in, grateful for sleep. I woke with a start at 8 am that morning. Each wall of the yellow tent was lit with sunlight and glowing like an oven. I tore off layer upon layer and spread out, trying to cool off. It was winter and 85 degrees in one of the hottest places on earth.
We spent the day driving around the dusty valley. We crunched out onto the endless patchwork of salt flats, dragging the white crystals back into the car on our feet and sleeves. We drove slowly through the sculpted walls of pastel stone known as the artists palette. We hiked up through the rose colored canyons, pausing to trace the faint lines of ancient lakes and the gallop of spring flash floods. Afterwards we raced the sun to the sand dunes where we watched the sunset unfold into a fan of orange, purple, and red. That night we slept without the fly on the tent,so we seemed to be slumbering under a canopy of stars. At 2 am we woke up and struggled out of the tent with our blankets to watch the much anticipated meteor shower. We scanned the huge sky and pointed out the streaks of light. Right before we climbed back to sleep a meteor came flashing across the sky, burst into flames and then dove for the horizon. It was so silent you could almost hear it hiss through the sky.
The next day we drove up into the hills of twisted brush and we began our hike to Wildrose peak. Eight hundred feet from the summit we were stopped by a herd of old men. They surrounded us and, as one snapped an inconceivable amount of pictures of us, the rest bombarded us with tales from the mountain and advice about which routes to take back up north. We bid adieu to the group of retired rocket scientist, as they claimed to be, and we dragged ourselves up the last, steep, eight hundred feet. The top was a pinnacle surrounded by a panorama of mountains. On one side the valley lay, vibrating with heat between the yellow mountains and, on the other, the Sierra Nevadas, chillingly blue, great, and frozen onto the horizon. Tomorrow we were loading up the car again and driving back north, right to the foothills of these slumbering giants.
We set up our tent in the still silence and crawled in, grateful for sleep. I woke with a start at 8 am that morning. Each wall of the yellow tent was lit with sunlight and glowing like an oven. I tore off layer upon layer and spread out, trying to cool off. It was winter and 85 degrees in one of the hottest places on earth.
We spent the day driving around the dusty valley. We crunched out onto the endless patchwork of salt flats, dragging the white crystals back into the car on our feet and sleeves. We drove slowly through the sculpted walls of pastel stone known as the artists palette. We hiked up through the rose colored canyons, pausing to trace the faint lines of ancient lakes and the gallop of spring flash floods. Afterwards we raced the sun to the sand dunes where we watched the sunset unfold into a fan of orange, purple, and red. That night we slept without the fly on the tent,so we seemed to be slumbering under a canopy of stars. At 2 am we woke up and struggled out of the tent with our blankets to watch the much anticipated meteor shower. We scanned the huge sky and pointed out the streaks of light. Right before we climbed back to sleep a meteor came flashing across the sky, burst into flames and then dove for the horizon. It was so silent you could almost hear it hiss through the sky.
The next day we drove up into the hills of twisted brush and we began our hike to Wildrose peak. Eight hundred feet from the summit we were stopped by a herd of old men. They surrounded us and, as one snapped an inconceivable amount of pictures of us, the rest bombarded us with tales from the mountain and advice about which routes to take back up north. We bid adieu to the group of retired rocket scientist, as they claimed to be, and we dragged ourselves up the last, steep, eight hundred feet. The top was a pinnacle surrounded by a panorama of mountains. On one side the valley lay, vibrating with heat between the yellow mountains and, on the other, the Sierra Nevadas, chillingly blue, great, and frozen onto the horizon. Tomorrow we were loading up the car again and driving back north, right to the foothills of these slumbering giants.
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