a savage . and holy light

Formations in Arches National Park

moab.

Now that I was perhaps more than an honorary nomad, I found the company of others who were less traditional in their thinking ever more appealing, even essential. Wherever and whenever creative prospectors gathered, there seemed a chance, at least to my thinking, for the future of humanity. At no point along the way did I hear politics discussed. And not having television or newspapers or the daily barrage of media gobbledygook was a refreshment in itself.

Just south of the Colorado River, on the edge of the painted desert, at a little over 4,000 feet, was Moab—an old mining town once known as the "Uranium Capital of the World." It was rumored to be a hippie-ish place filled with drifters, renegades, anarchists, artists and rabble rousers of all sorts. And oh yes, and most likely a stray writer or two.

Moab was indeed a crazy little town. It did have some of that tie-dyed, tattooed, peace-love-dove aura still clinging to it, but now it had gone a notch or two upscale, with some good restaurants, a very fine book store, and plenty of well-heeled tourists itching to explore The Arches, Canyonlands and Dead Horse Point, the expanse which my new literary hero, Edward Abbey, called his "33,000-acre garden." All of which were in easy reach of Moab, with Zion and Bryce Canyon just a few hours away.

On my way into Moab, I saw a sign for "Palisade Peaches." My friend Matt had told me that if I ever wanted to taste the best peaches in the world, these were the ones. I couldn't resist. Cheryl Castle and Karah Levely were delightful to talk with and Matt was right, Palisade Peaches (grown in Colorado) were indeed delicious. They sustained me through several days of breakfasts and snacks.

Cheryl Castle and Karah Levely
at their Palisade Peach stand
in Moab

In the Bible, Moab was the place in the desert just short of the Promised Land, notably where the prophet Moses met his demise. This reference was to return to me later in my travels, as you will see. It was the last of summer—and I found to my dismay that all of the state and national parks were booked—no room at the inn. It was my good fortune then to discover a small campground within walking distance of town that had 21 tent sites. Up the Creek was a perfectly safe and well-run oasis close to a streambed, which coaxed me to sleep each of the three nights I camped there.

Better yet, there were visitors there from all over the world. I met people from Germany, France, Belgium, North Carolina and even a couple from Oakland, California who were my tent neighbors. We shared a nice glass of Chardonnay together and marveled at the chances of being right next to people from the Bay Area. I wish now that I'd accepted their kind offer to go to dinner so that I could have gotten to know them better.

  

And, there were no RVs. That was kind of cool, to be among a community of tent-ers instead of gazing up at steel boxes that made a ruckus all day and night as they ran their air conditioners, drowning out the music of the trees, the water, the nightly symphony of the crickets.

In a less-than-charitable moment, I had the thought that the RV'ers, who were well insulated from the ravages of nature compared to me, might just as well have been parked in their safe suburban driveways. I have to say it amused me a bit to see how much work it was to back these behemoths into place, much less set them up and tear them down. It looked to me a tiring and somewhat boring production all around.

Many of these people, I grew to tell, were permanently on the road. For whatever reason, they had made this a lifestyle choice. That was just fine with me. In fact, I rather admired these particular folks, wondering what their lives were like, what prompted them to uproot and meander across the U.S., what it felt like to live in a rolling house.

Others seemed in a frantic race to see everything on their checklist. Their destinations were a kind of competition, as were the size and features of their RVs. As I eavesdropped on their conversations (often impossible to avoid), it was clear that, for some, it was more about saying they'd been somewhere, rather than fully experiencing it. They were the collectors of place, cultural tourists in their own land.

Tent campers seemed closer in touch with their environments, more interested in the soul of the places they were visiting, of traveling light and impacting the land in a more graceful way. These were just two different groups of people sharing the land for the time being in two very different ways. Both were there out of curiosity, of the desire to experience something different than their everyday lives. Neither was morally superior to the other. And for the most part everyone got along together in these temporary, very diverse communities.

Moab and its surroundings were like an alien landscape to me. I had only been to the desert once, years before in Joshua Tree, California. This, the high desert, was not remotely like that. At first, I felt so entirely disconnected that a wave of unspeakable loneliness fell over me. I couldn't find a way in, a way to understand where I was and what it meant. I wanted to know more. I found a great independent bookstore, Back of Beyond Books, that specialized in maps and books about the Colorado Plateau. When I walked in, Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire: A Season in the Wilderness seemed to jump into my hand. Desert Solitaire was exactly the book I needed as I searched for some personal, poetic connection to the desert. It became my bible, as my now sand-stained, tattered and underlined copy can attest.

I spent part of a comfortable afternoon reading at Twisted Sisters Cafe in town, who graciously let me sip coffee and escape the heat for a few hours.

On the way to The Arches

And indeed, I finally found my connection through language, in Abbey's passionate account of the season he spent as a park ranger in Arches National Park. I list some of his descriptions here (as much as a reminder to myself as to expose you to his way with words), as they so deftly and accurately paint a picture of the landscape in which I was now immersed. I think you will agree that they could only have been conjured by someone who had lived intimately and for a good deal of time in the wild.

. . . burnt cliffs, lonely sky, red wasteland, pale green dawns, fiery gold, paradox & bedrock, exposed & naked, corroded monoliths, talus slopes & vertical red walls, glints of blue, emerald, gold, unnamable shades of violet, the real, the serious wind, a fire of flowers, ragged roots, rock garden, heart-shaped prints of deer, hot, sunken, desolate, bayonets of the yucca, rocky fretwork, a savage and holy light, a music in the mind, sun flaring like a white scream, ceramic mud, scalding heat, my fire dies to a twist of smoke and a heap of rubies, parched as an old bacon rind, sweet pellucid air, soft, sere tones of saffron & auburn, the best of all sauces is hunger, desert varnish, cottonwoods with gray, elephantine trunks & bright clear-green leaves, delicately suspended, trembling in the air, varied hues of amber, honey, whiskey, clouds like clipper ships, hoodoo land of spire & spire & pinnacle, spokes of light, slashes of light, like golden velvet, iridescent silver-blue sage, golden eyes of the deer, vulture-haunted sky, leaves . . . like gold foil above our heads atonal, cruel, clear, inhuman, neither romantic or classical, motionless & emotionless, aluminum-grey clouds . . .

As I read Abbey's narrative about his time in the desert, I was truly inspired. My mind unfurled like a cactus flower. I opened up, I let it in. I began to really see it and feel it.

I took a day to visit Arches National Park, where 100 million years of exposure to wind, water, ice and underground salt bed movement have sculpted the world's greatest density of natural arches, spired arches, balanced rocks, eroded monoliths and fins out of porous Entrada sandstone.

I met a really cute couple there who were very kind in sharing their knowledge about the area. I wrote down their names (somewhere) and have yet to find them, but here they are!

I chose to walk Devil's Garden Trail, at 7.2 miles the longest of the sanctioned hikes, which includes the Double-O Arch and Landscape Arch. I made a side trip to Pinetree Arch on the way down, which to me was quite exceptional as you could walk through the arch itself. It was hot, dusty climbing and blazing heat even when I started at 9 am. I was happy to find the occasional pinion and juniper tree to gather some coolness before moving on. It amazed me to see people on the trail without water, some without shoes. This was not what I would call easy hiking in places. When I reach Double-O Arch, I was feeling heat stroked, and headed back, intending to return to hike the rest of the trail another day.

Pine Tree Arch

Sun-drenched and Bedraggled
 at Double-O Arch

Along the Trail
at Devil's Garden

But before leaving Moab, I decided it was time to get to know the Colorado River, which was so crucial to the character of this land. I booked a 1/2-day whitewater rafting trip with Moab Adventure Center for the next morning and opted to ride out the waves in a single kayak that followed those in the rubber raft. We were known as "Duckies." What fun!

A light rain began to fall when we put in at Hittle Bottom, a 30-minute drive upstream from Moab. When we reached the take-out beach past Salt Wash Rapid four hours later, the sun was barely surfacing from behind the clouds, but the overcast day made the mountains that much more stunning, and certainly much more comfortable to be on the river. Cranes and other birds followed our path. Seeing the plants and topography of the banks and experiencing the taste and smell of the reddish-brown waters of the river up close would have been exhilarating enough, but paddling through the rapids—that was a blast!

I met a really nice woman, Cheri Kagan, who was traveling in the same mode as I was. We had lunch after the trip and swapped stories about being on the road.

The next day, as I crossed the desert deeper into Utah, it suddenly felt like a wound had reopened. Perhaps the healing waters of the hot springs were continuing to pull toxins from my capillaries; perhaps it was the heat, exhaustion, the weariness of being on the road for so long; perhaps it was the surprise of meeting someone I felt something special for, something that hadn't happened in along time, and then the loss of them so quickly.

I almost did not go to Dead Horse Point.  

I had to pull the car over. My eyes stung. My heart felt like shattered glass. It all poured forth until the splendor of Dead Horse Point came into view. As I stood, bathed in the last light of that vast and ancient landscape, my power returned. I sat and meditated as the sun sank behind the gorge and became a red smear on the blackened hills.

There was a gentle wind. When I stood up, I felt cleansed of all sadness, back in balance, ready for whatever the days ahead might bring.

View from Dead Horse Point

Dead Horse Point.

I had heard that the scenery at Dead Horse Point State Park equaled if not in some ways exceeded the grandeur of the Grand Canyon, but it was lesser known than the national parks in the area. I wouldn't have believed it unless I had seen this for myself and even so, I was lucky to get the very last campsite for weeks to come, even if it was only for one night!

Dead Horse Point embodied all of that. The view at 5,900 feet was not the tallest elevation I'd stood at, but when everyone gathered at the lookout to watch the sun go down, it proved to be both a festive and meditative communal experience.

I met a lovely couple there from, you guessed it, North Carolina. They were headed home but just delightful to talk with and we shared some amusing camp tales. I must say that everywhere I have traveled, I have met the most interesting, kind and friendly people.

My next stop was another destination barely on the map—the Fruita Historic District, which consisted of miles of orchards of apple, pear and peach trees—an ocean of green in the middle of the desert. Paradoxically, this welcoming oasis became a place I will always remember—because I barely made it out alive.