Awed. There is nothing else anybody can possibly feel when they are standing at the brink of a thousand foot cliff with absolutely nothing between you and a very long fall. Canyonlands National Park in southeastern Utah is my heart's home, and I have trouble putting my thoughts and feelings and yearning into words; I don't know if I can even describe what this place means to me. I'm usually pretty damn good at telling stories about my travels, but I have deliberately put this blog post off because I don't know how to describe my desert in a way that will make anybody understand the way I feel and think about this place. Why I have a fierce, burning desire the color of entrada sandstone at dusk to be there. Why I feel like I'm home in a state that I've never lived in, surrounded by one of the most inhospitable regions in the United States. How do I tell people why I got a tattoo of a lizard to represent my desert in a way that won't come off as a little psychotic?
It's not just one thing that speaks to me when I'm out there. It's the combination of all of the elements of a desert that astounds me, and keeps me coming back for more like desert sage soaking up moisture after a summer thunderstorm. It's the fiery orange and blindingly white sandstone and the purple shadows at dawn and dusk. It's the sage, the junipers, the cacti and the little hidden wildflowers. It's the ravens and the desert bighorn sheep, the spade foot toads and the coyotes. Not only the physical presences in the desert, but the lack thereof. I've described many times how I prefer solitude to crowds of people; in my desert, I achieve that elusive condition necessary for my sanity. How can I resist the beckon of a place that meets my desires?
I must also confess that I'm drawn to the challenges presented by the desert. Sure, there's the obvious lack of available water, but one can't forget the hiking, mountain biking, jeep trails, scrambling, and rock climbing provided by such an incredible place. If you don't think hiking or scrambling in the desert can be challenging, you obviously haven't read anything I've written before in this blog. There is something about testing your strength and stamina and resources and will power against a completely unforgiving environment. And when you come out on top? Bliss.
The last time I visited my desert, Cat and I were on a week-long hiatus from life. We spent every single day up by dawn (and sometimes long before the first hint of dawn) and returned to the tent well after sunset. We spent all but one evening among the rocks, watching as they flamed brightly, then dimmed into purple silhouettes with the dying day. Twice we hiked to Delicate Arch, on a mission to capture the essence of Arches National Park, along with a hundred other people. Three times we drove to the Island in the Sky District of Canyonlands National Park, savoring the long, winding highway up the plateau and across the grassy washes to the very edge of the world, where the earth fell away at our feet and there was nothing to stop us from launching ourselves into the deep shadows left by the retreating light. We arrived too late on two nights, and were there only to watch the sun cast her last sky painting of the day, and observe the canyons falling into silent darkness. The third attempt we arrived early, on the coattails of a booming thunderstorm that left the scent of rain on the air and a rainbow in the sky over the canyons. We set up our cameras, kicked off our shoes, and stretched out, six inches away from one thousand feet of thin air. It was a perfect evening, and I think both of us hoped it would last forever. The sun set slowly, and the mood of the canyons changed constantly. I have a hundred pictures of that moment, and at first glance they all look exactly the same. But then you notice that this canyon here was lit, then it filled with a lavender haze, then finally succumbed to shadows. Then that one over there did the same. And the district across the river, the one we had hiked that very day, looked like flickering candles on a birthday cake, until they were blown out by the setting sun.
Are you beginning to understand the power that my desert holds over me? Every. single. thing. calls to some part of who I am. I love the challenge, I love the adventure, the solitude, the delicate balance of life that water brings, the destructive force that heat can wrought, that water can carve, and the innate peacefulness that I feel when I am there.
The name of my blog is directly related to my desert. The Kokopelli is an ancient southwestern Indian deity, usually depicted as a hunch backed flute player. Kokopelli is a prankster, a healer, a musician, a storyteller and a traveler. Kokopelli is responsible for the changing of winter into spring and for the fertility that accompanies the changing seasons. While in the desert, I bought a little toy raven that now lives on my rear view mirror in my car. Guess what it's name is.
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| The raven is Kokopelli. The bear is Hallett, named after the mountain I will climb in Rocky Mountain National Park, CO |
Now, due to my decision to move even farther away from my heart's home, it is unlikely that I'll get to visit my desert any time this year, but I have every intention of going back as soon as possible in 2016. As in, beginning of January. I don't even care if it's the middle of a high-desert winter. Just means less people, right? Until then, I have photos and memories of my favorite place on the planet, and can look forward to the day that I get to go home.
What I'm listening to: Skytoucher by The Glitch Mob
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