What do you do when you don’t know what to do? At times, the orbit of thought spins faster, flowing freely at first, then coagulating. Suddenly no room remains. Like a suffocation of the mind, you gasp, reaching for anything. Stability, purpose, maybe just a reprieve, a little one. —— The body bears the weight of thought now. Minutes in, not yet having reached the wilderness boundary, man and motorized companion stop in front of me and he politely shuts off the engine. Forty horsepower now silent and questions begin. He’s soft spoken, polite and with a slow shake of the head, I know my plans suite me well. I’m left with a good luck wish and acknowledgments of bravery, which doesn’t tend to mean much to me when a stranger says such things, but I chose to remember his voice for a bit longer. In his advancing age, beyond the middle of middle, and sun filled skin, who am I to think I know better. I’ve long been uncomfortable with the thought of a walk out here. —— The desert I frequent is non-threatening, with its gentle sandstone curves, lushly fragrant vegetation, alluring canyons, ridges, pockets and relative abundance of water. It IS too good to be true. A goddess, a divine being. This isn’t the desert I know, but I don’t have the internal capacity to be uncomfortable and so, there’s only one decision to be made. To walk or to sit. —— Dormant grasses lay partially flattened in the space between rock. Rock that’s tall enough to encourage grass avoidance and short enough to encourage abnormal strides atop them. The path is not so much a path, but a suggestion, one that limits time spent swatting long limbed shrubbery. A warm up, if you will. A fogged window into the future. I’m carrying enough water to satisfy my conscious questioning of availability in a land of drought and recent fire. There’s one definite source, two days away, though at this southerly point in it’s meander, it contains anthropogenic additives from mines, farms, golf courses, ranches, roadways and hedonistic caretakers of the desert lawn. Proceed with caution. —— There’s a trail junction and I laugh, to nobody but myself. I’ve chosen the path of little travel, likely frequented by deer, javelina, coyote and big cats, but certainly few upright bipedalists. At that confluence, I begin the easiest miles of travel I’ll see out here; the beyond. Going beyond the bad and likely some good, but hopefully, just maybe, beyond myself too. It’s a simply composed line, generally straight, all downhill. It was quiet when I parked the car and it’s still quiet now, as I donate thousands of feet to my quadriceps. A weathered wooden sign directs me to a spring. I took note of this one and a couple others on a map before leaving, but had little confidence in their ability to satiate me. Springs on USGS maps are scarcely reliable in the desert. Could be dry, a seep, a trickle, a flow, or as this one is, a cattle trough filled to its brim. The admirable cohesion of clear delicious molecules sitting above the top, but not spilling, provide a metaphor us humans love to devour. Unity, man! Water in the desert, man! Drink up and feel at peace with nonsensical worrying. This is all you need, right here, right now. That’s one breadcrumb, taken with pleasure. Onward, downward. —— A rustle in the shrubs, a cracked branch and a quick swivel of my head to see the thing behind me. Nothing. Something, but nothing. Probably just me, trying to keep up, but falling behind. The sun has left, as it does, no longer entering my pores, but pleasing my eyes as it floats into that beyond, coaxing me along. —— My tent and sleeping bag sparkle with frost in the light of my headlamp, amid the awakening sky and last moments admiring stars. Puffy eyes and slow sight lead me over polished and tumbled rock. The careful steps of padded feet and sound of breathing fourteen inches from my face last night remind me of the sounds I heard yesterday afternoon. It must have taken me awhile to catch up. With each step away from the bottom of the canyon and up to the rim, the chill of sunken air dissipates and thus, so does my wool and down feather skin. Exposed again, ready to photosynthesize. Walking is great, so is eating. The sun, unable to feed me in its infancy for the day, means I get to indulge in one of life’s greatest pleasures; eating while walking. Yes, believe it! The drainage I ascend is dry, but a cottonwood stands on damp ground in the narrows, filled with chlorophyll, as birds question my arrival with plentiful song and dance. I thank them, regardless of their attitude towards my tall, quick moving, flightless self. I’m doing what I can, but I sure wish we could talk and admire the day together. —— I’ve traveled in a nearly straight line for almost 24 hours. At the high point now, it’s time to turn. Manzanita will be my unintentional guide through the rolling hills atop the mesa. Its wood somewhere between a deep rust and red brick in color, with leaves appearing mint green on their underside courtesy of tiny hairs reducing transpiration. The color combination is very pleasing for the eyes, made better when the urn shaped flowers, light pink in color, bloom. The flowers are quite small and being mostly pollinated by bees, who can’t fit themselves inside, it requires buzz pollination. The bees will hang upside down on the flower and vibrate in a way that causes pollen to drop from the anthers (male), clinging to their body, ready to be transferred to the stigma (female) of the next flower. Its hearty wood makes it not particularly easy to walk through, but it grows in such a way that I tend to always find myself induced in the act of intuitive wandering. Moving in the right direction, but via a path requested by your surroundings. It’s an intoxicatingly pleasurable way to travel. Trails are created to emulate this feeling, but don’t achieve the same satisfaction. They each have their place and now, as I walk the cobbled wash among charred vegetation, I get neither. I’ve found that the smell of blackened earth can bring one of two emotions. When the weather is colder, it reminds me of the last moments of a campfire, as you douse the heat before crawling into your sleeping bag, now covered in a thin coating of saccharine smoke. When the weather is warmer, it reminds me of deep summer, when the skin darkens from sun, dust, sweat, bliss. And then a haze hits you. Wildfire, here, maybe elsewhere, but its scent awakens a mild frenetic pacing, looking for answers as you remember all the places you’ve loved. Today, out here in the beyond, I seek shade, looking to sweeten my memories. Yet another cattle trough, filled to its brim, encourages the pondering of carbonized cells. It’s easy to feel sad for the land. Black is not a color most associate with good. When you think a little harder, it could perhaps be seen as a redefining, but at the very least, an unfortunate event for a place not accustomed to fire. The end, it is not. The land will persist, for this is but a millisecond on its time scale. Our time is limited, meaning any degradation of earth is degradation of self. The water is cold. That’s another breadcrumb, taken with pleasure. —— I stand at the crest of another climb, trying to make sense of distance and topography. This walk, to the trained participant, is clearly separated into sections. I place the idea in my head that I can see all of it from my perch. When you look out, far below, and see the breadcrumb you’ve placed, distance distorts when your eyes focus solely on where you desire. The space between, the intricacies, dissipate into a blurry two dimensional mass. In that moment you think it doesn’t look too far, it doesn’t look too complex, it doesn’t look too steep. It’s dangerous thinking, in more ways than one. Not only physically, as you glance past features you will travel through, but I think the greater danger is to regard that space as nothing more than a thing to get through, on your way to the breadcrumb you’ve tossed down the line. It’s a sin I’ve committed more times than I care to admit; unconscious movement, where the destination is the only desire. You’d be better off flipping through a picture book. You don’t have to worry about getting sunburnt. —— The spanish walk is when a horse, after being trained to do so, will extend their front legs in an exaggerated upward and forward manner when stepping. Almost like tip toeing. Almost like the way I walk through fields of cacti, where the tall grass inhibits sight of the ground that’s surely to be dotted with yucca, rocks like grapefruits, a snake or two and the fallen and dangling spine covered branches of senegalia and ocotillo. I’ve written a good bit here before the mention of senegalia, or catclaw, as it’s more commonly known. It’s native to the region, though thought of as invasive by some. Important for pollinators, though the recurved spines will cause familiar humans to shudder at the thought. It can grow into a small tree, hooking onto nearly anything that brushes against it. It has drawn more blood from my legs, arms and face, than any other plant. It’s torn apart clothing and my excitement for a place. It’s been abundant thus far and will continue to be. After being hooked so many times, the novelty wears off. My clothing has become pieces of sacrifice. Torn here, torn there, but there’s water to drink, rocks to roll with and an incessantly negative mind that needs to be dealt with and left behind. I haven’t seen it, the negativity, the sadness, in some time. Another thing for catclaw to rip away. Besides, it would be a shame to project my own burdens on a place so lovely. Yes, it’s lovely out here and I prove it to myself by stepping with intention across this mesa filled with intricacies. The rock laden ravine with it’s pools of water and native bunch grasses, the open hillsides carrying countless species of cacti and the flat stretch here at the end, hotter now, but with a juniper bush just tall enough for me to sit under. This is a trail junction, with little emphasis on trail. There isn’t one, but the leaning, cracking wooden posts tell me there is. It’s a comfort, the breadcrumb I tossed. I can see the river from up here and soon I’ll be at its shore, my pores to fill with it’s moisture and perhaps I’ll even sigh with relief because it signals the certainty of water for another day, as I walk upstream. The ocotillo, after a somewhat recent rain here, are in full form. They dance in the breeze, covered in fluorescent green leaves and tubular red flowers, offering their nectar to the long bills of hummingbirds. This year, find a tube shaped red flower and wait. When the hummingbirds surely show, you’ll be treated to the painfully sweet sight of their heads dusted in pollen. —— This walk had a purpose. Most don’t. Spontaneity and an empty mind, open and ready to be filled, is the way I prefer to travel. It was days out here that I tried to ask the most basic of questions and deny entry to intrusive ideas. Should I eat? How much? When will the sun set? And rise? Will there be a trail this time? No. No. No. Does that matter? No. Am I capable? Am I willing? Where is the water? And finally, as I bend and crouch and crawl underneath canopy after canopy of catclaw, so insistent I stay a while, I have the pleasure of asking the things, the place I’ve desired to become, where am I? I am here and nowhere else. The leaves of the cottonwoods flutter, I notice birdsong by the water, the line of ants, heat on my neck, every rock under my feet. I turn and bow one last time to the tunnels of thorns and dismiss the cries of self from inside. The weight has been shed and the loveliness of color and sound take its place. —— The sun won’t wait for me, I know this, though I love to shout praises at the blending of yellow, orange, red, pink, purple and blue. The water caresses my legs as each careful step brings me back to the sandy bank. Keep climbing. Standing now on a high, flat patch of ground above the things I moved through the last few days. It’s all there. Lay down to relax for once. The desperation of escape has ceased and I allow the quiet, most soft sounds of music to play, dozing off under pellucid pathways of stars, twinkling again, as they always have. —— As I rise from camp to crest the first of many hills out of the canyon, the sun shines, piercing skin, clothing and retinas with predictable warmth. I feel it this time, no longer chilled by discomfort. The leaves of oak trees, backlit by the morning, place me in a state of contentment you can often only feel at home. I spent my young years staring out my bedroom window at the same dancing of the oaks. I’d climb as high as I could into their canopy and sway with the wind until I thought I understood what being a tree was like. Sitting underneath them now, peanut m&m’s are like a delicacy, like I haven’t been eating handfuls of them. Chewing slowly, I pay close attention to the texture of each layer. After a few days, this is one of my favorite things to do when I’ve been eating for pure sustenance. The outer candy layer is delicate, the chocolate melting into a coating and the peanut is soft, but firm enough to chew. Pleasure is a peanut! It leaves me audibly laughing once more, to myself, to the oak, juniper, ocotillo, catclaw, manzanita, rocks and sun, oh glorious sun. —— Heel, toe, bang. The sign signalling my exit from wilderness takes on two forms. The slow digestion of the mind begins when I cross that physical boundary and walk lightly over crushed gravel, beyond the cows, back to the car. Gun wielding, public land participants dot the road. I close my eyes with each invasive noise. Silence will have the last word. I remember that. —— Walking up to the counter, there’s a thick smell of butter and salt. I sit in a patch of sun, on the dirt, with two mushroom and spinach empanadas, a carton of blueberries and brew a cup of coffee. I often forget what it’s like to talk after long walks. Words are there, but the movement of my mouth to make the words needs to be broken back in. Talking to myself is more of a mumbling, swirling noise, so I call my sister, like always, and run down the things I didn’t black out. It’s nice of her to listen. It’s hard to listen to myself sometimes, so I come out here. The beyond. It’s good here. It’s good. I remember how to pray, how to give in that way; submissive to the beauty along the stairway of my thought, the answers I think I need. What were my questions? I can not recall.
