Thursday, May 27, 2010

5/24

A white van sailed through an ocean of desert dust. It slid through the eternal alleyway of Joshua trees. My Hawaiian sarong was flying in the wind from its anchor on cactus fingers. I forget it four days ago.

On the road back, Bill stopped the van quickly. A red snake lay sprawled across four feet of dust. "Those suckers bite like a motherfucker," he said. He opened the door and walked around the red racer in slow circles, the white childish grin in his mouth. The snake was not as pleased and began coiling into symbols of pain. Bill cornered its escape, and instantly broke into a swift jig, laughing as the spearhead lashed at his ankles. He stepped away as it lunged a last time, through the brushes and away. He walked back into the van and drove us home, picking up the conversation where it was dropped.

5/23

There is still snow waiting on the high slopes of the Sierra. Furniture and I decided we could wait longer, so we are waiting on the desert floor. We are waiting on the dry and dusty basin of the Mojave desert, the intermission between two mighty mountain ranges. We found jobs on a goat farm, and arrived today. The owners fed us goat milk and goat cheese and goat meat and goat kefir and took us through this cradle of life in the bowl of dust. Wide blue skies and snowy peaks frame a beige orchard of apple trees and steel goat cages. The wind runs through like a vandal, stirring the plants and the animals. Snakes called "the Mojave Green" slide along the ground, waiting to put a neurotoxin, donated by evolution, into a man's blood. Goats are the citizens of this little city, and dogs are their police, and a monstrous blind pig is their mayor. Already we have heard stories of space shuttles and abandoned gold mines and drag races and heavy metal deposits and Charles Manson's family and the Mojave Green. The desert is the place to pursue things that have been chased out of cities, and here we are amongst both lifestyles- sheltered in an ancient anchored RV in the ring of rusting apocalyptic stacks of machines, just waiting, just being a desert competitor.

Friday, May 21, 2010

5/20

The desert saga really begins yesterday afternoon. We plowed through the first sun oven of sand and arrived at the highway. It was just a long vein of asphalt, and there was a home on the other side, trimmed like a western film set. Old machinery lay in the sandy yard, and the owner welcomed us into his garage. We let the sun sink and the heat escape before setting into the sand again. The trail plunged through the Mojave desert, a long strand of sand dividing the mountains. we approached the narrow open channel of the Los Angeles aqueduct, and peed into it before crossing, only hoping the our salt-infused peanut urine would fill a minor drop of every cosmopolitan water glass. We made it as far into the dark desert as we could before collapsing.

This morning the sun was quick to wake again. Within an hour my skin changed from shivering to sweating. By light our view was unlimited- sweeping copper hills patched with Joshua trees, standing around like sentinels. The wind began to steadily intensify, until we were leaning forward to stay upright. Sand was being caught in greater gusts. Soon I could not hear anything but the whipping in my ears. Bojangles walked in front of me and screamed something into the air. He pointed to a rattlesnake coiled on the trail, shaking, but its sound drowned in the wind. We walked around it but encountered three more, all threatening us silently.

5/18

After a stint of fortunate roadside karma and the collective pampering of civilizations, of pooping in toilets consecutive evenings and finding coffee in the morning, I have brought myself back into the abyss. Fire closures routed the trail on country roads and past the eyes of strangers. Folks in Acton, Agua Dulce and Green Valley were all eager to spoil me as they saw me emerge from beneath powerlines and railroad tracks. But here I am again and it is the pain and the pleasure that let me know that I'm alive.
A cold mist settled on the desert for the past two days. What used to be limitless panoramas of sand became shrouded by thick cold clouds. We walked high on the ridge today in a still and quiet haze. The desert was like a dreamland. "There better not be a psycho clown with a meat cleaver around the corner," Bojangles said.

5/14

Fire closure forced us onto the road. There are no trees or water, only a thin vein of asphalt running to a disappearing desert horizon. Gone are the ice-blanketed 8,000 foot passes, and now we walk alone in the floor of the beige-colored quartz oven. But we found a giant willow tree bending over sand on the bank of a desert stream, and here in the shade we will wait until the sun has dropped its guard, and start walking again. The plastic Jesus in the roadside sand will watch us.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

5/11

At 8300 feet elevation the only bed I have is granite and sticks. The sun is sinking over the ridge and the vapor is rising in quick clouds from the two warm bodies on this ridge. Michael the German is here too, and we anticipate an easy trounce through ten miles of snow to town tomorrow. Those below may be proud of their homes, but on this perch I watch them move like ants below, and eat my cheese like a king.

5/10

This evening we found hot springs in the desert- already crowded by some Californian casual capital earning citizens. The problem with paradise is it needs an observer to become idyllic, but the observing takes away that very gleam itself.

5/7

The rest of the world accepts a weekly Sabbath, so after 270 miles without a day of rest, I realized I was overdue. I hitched into Big Bear City to join other fragmented bands of hikers. Stepping into town is like descending from heaven to a skyscraper, like peeling open a door to another dimension, where time is so much quicker. The time I have set my clock to by the woods is called deep time- the eons it takes for mountains to rise and crumble, or for trees to stretch their limbs. Town is accelerated time- the compression of space into snack-size pieces. But I certainly can't whine about my luck in hitchhiking up and down the boulevard between cafes. Lakewood and I retired early, by the sun's command, and each brought a rotisserie chicken back to the motel room. We bathed in the great American grease of televisions and meat, falling asleep in a warm dry place. The next day Furniture and Rally found me, perhaps by detecting my emanating good vibes. Now on the trail again, I have wound my clock back to snowbound slow time, and I brought a disposable camera for the documentary.

5/4

The blissful pleasures come in the midst of the darkest, most calloused valleys. I would find no comfort in a cavernous mansion, or a car I need to to take care of or a hot dinner someone else prepared. But finding a crumbling stone cabin on a n 8100 foot pass, walled in from the whipping wind and out of sight of the mountain ice- that is truly a joy. My friends and I have reclaimed its life with a glowing fire in the long dead hearth. Now with my sleeping bag wrapped tight around me and wool gloves around my wrists, I will warm myself in my family's gifts. I keep the fabric close as a token of love.

5/3

Routed out the snow but pummeled my feet. Pilgrims carry heavy spiritual burdens, but they are patient in the pace of their quest. I carry almost nothing and I am racing northward at a hurry to usher in the Messiah.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

May Day

I consecrate the first day of May be looking down on the valleys from this high icy buttress, watching the city of Palm Springs far East light up the desert sand like moonlight on water. And 7,200 feet lower in the West the purple cactus flowers are celebrating in the canyon. And here we are, furniture and Sam and I, dangling on a precipice above the world like we were sitting on God's thumb. 
We crossed Apache Peak hours ago, untying the knot of nervousness that was twining in my stomach as I'm sure in the stomachs of other hikers. The rumours in the community and amongst locals were images of treacherousness and an icy plunge to the canyon. Alternate routes were encouraged. The North face is not touched by sun, and snow stays packed in sheets, slick and steep. Of course we strutted to it, and rounding the North bend my steps simply stopped. "Well, it was nice knowing you," Furniture chuckled.
Years ago a forest fire at all the trees on the North and East slope, leaving only black bones in the ground. The soil eroded and washed away without roots to hold it, leaving a near vertical chute in its wake. We were looking at a long glowing cape of ice stretched out across a flank that dropped forever. We started walking downslope, trying to cross below the sheet of ice. Even footsteps in the soil sent sleds of rocks sliding down down forever and out out of sight. I could feel the Earth slipping beneath me, tired and ready to let go of the mountain. We made it across, and continued walking through the steep graveyard of black trunks, watching pebbles ten inches from our shoes slide into oblivion. The sibling of majesty is danger. The sublimity of these peaks is that you are standing on something wonderful on the very edge of life. 

4/30

A week ago we knocked beer caps off on the Mexican fencepost. Now we are plunged deep in the desert, but not without intoxicating kindness. Interaction happens like desert rains: life is dry for days until a monsoon of stimulation. Thus far we've been soaked with the kindness of pies beside the road, of beers in stream beds, of hot dog grills in parking lots, hot thermal springs, and most recently, a man called Mike let us into his home. 
All fifteen dirty hikers were lounging in a little room glowing with a wood stove. Roasted chicken, tortillas, rice and beans after seventeen miles of tortuous tranced shuffling through sand is the root of Euphoria. Hunger is indeed the best sauce. 
We left he desert shack this morning, left the sleeping strange machinery and dumbbells rusting in the yard. Left the beer behind, back into a place that men have not put in bottles and packages. 
I think a lot. I let lines of song reverberate over and over, dancing with thoughts of my own. Reason is a scalpel, and there is no amount of fat insulating a riddle through whit it cannot cut. School is a wonderful confluence of ideas, a sort of flea market of questions, but is a distraction as well. To fully enjoy he things you've been given, you must turn them over and over until the ends are smooth. 

4/26 From the dusty Trail

A few days ago I was left in the bottom of a long and cold landscape like a drop of paint mistakenly dripped on an impressionist canvas. Thus far the journey north has been an exposure to natures' great wizened hand. With thin and minimal supplies I have walked through mountain passes cold as hell and hot as furnaces. I have held my possessions in a thin nylon shield against the sun. Though the desert is not what I imagined: not a Looney Toons landscape in high contrast, a pool of golden sand lined with high cacti. There is greenery here but it is sparse and small, growing on the balding heads of ridges as far as the horizon. On top of this land a human feels small- because in no direction are visible the great things we are proud of- no roads, buildings or even other souls. There is only me and the Earth, me drifting across this giant like a dust mite fallen on an endless crumpled ream of paper.

The community is small but strong. About 300 people aspire to complete this trail every year, all beginning in the same window of time after spring snow melt. That means on a given day or night I may be entirely alone on the crumpled rocks, and someone may be stirring on the next mountain over, thinking the exact same thing. Sometimes I see tiny glowing shapes drifting on a far ridgeline, and think them only pollen in my eye, but realize it is another tiny pilgrim like me.