I went for the silence, the stars, and the dark, and got only a little silence - maybe none depending on how you read the experience - and dark. Well, not with the stars. And yet, I got all I came for. The wind stole the silence, but the wind is beautiful, and but for the wind there was silence. And dark - there were no mankind lights except for a little string far down and away, the settlement of Furnace Creek built around the national park visitor center. I didn't mind them. They were easy not to see. And the stars; god, they were astounding.
You stand there under the force of the sun on the bones of the earth the sky intense blue and clear in a full circle of hills and ridges each its own soul and you want to open and raise your arms to the sky and drop them slowly to the earth and raise them again in a sun circle. And I did that every now and then and it felt fine to do.
There were a hundred and six campsites in Texas Springs camp, and but for three fleeting incidents mine was the only one occupied. My tree was also the only shade in the whole range of the camp beyond the Tents Only (no RV's) line. So I was alone.
Bear the heat in mind. Around 117°F. Dangerously hot. Not like Baghdad but still.
Flora; scarce, but likable; scrub of two or three species - one a bluey-white leaf that seemed to glow and sparkle in the sun - and a few short willowy type trees outside the border road. Except mine; and mine was also the only one I saw whose branches didn't arch all the way to the ground thus making it un-lean-againstable. I pulled a flat rock up to the exposed trunk and had a shade haven. A little home. Mildly amazing that no one seems to have done that before. Maybe they bring their own camp stools, but I saw no sign in the dirt.
Fauna; ants, lizards, a hummingbird, a mule-eared jack rabbit, a raven, a tiny fly, a wasp or hornet - hornet or wasp - one small insect I forget and that's it. Oh no! the dove! Not to forget her.
That was a big humping raven. On the dun hillside it looked as big as a man but distances are hard to read in the desert; when it landed on the aluminum picnic tables it was a couple feet tall. It dominated the northeast quadrant of the camp. It knew how to turn the standing water pipe on, and, off.
Ants. The ants were a trip. They got me thinking. There were two colonies, little volcanoes, each ten or twelve feet from my sleeping bag, one south, one north. Morning and evening there were thousands; from one to three there were none. Late morning there were few enough that I could track individuals on their missions; I watched one run four missions from South Hill to the other side of my bedroll, to her assigned destination. She would nose around until she found something she could carry - she had to give up on a flake of my bread roll - and wobble it up and over and around all obstacles back to base where she would vanish into the hole and then, hardly a breath later, out she comes and does it again.
The foragers are female. I looked it up.
I looked it up because I was impressed by their life - how did they know what to do, where to go? Who gave the orders? Not the queen - some colonies have queens but they don't issue commands - how do they communicate? They move so quickly, don't they tire? Do they ever rest? They aren't out foraging for themselves; they don't eat what they find, they take it to the home base. They seemed like smart little guys. How do they do that? How does it work? Short answer; pheromones. And, science is now concluding that an ant colony is an Intelligence.
Funny thing. The ants from South Hill went out got food went home. Ants from North Hill did that, but some of them went down into South Hill, got food, took it to North Hill. Does South Hill know what they're up to? And that dove? It went pecking all around my camp, at first just finding what it could on the dirt, then one time it sees a tasty gobbet bobbing along toward South Camp - an ant had it - and it pokes down its beak and pops that little white blob for itself. Ant runs around confused for a second then orients back to its destination to get another. I watch the bird curiously to see if it's a fluke. It pecks around some more, then finds another loaded ant and plucks his booty right up, not touching the ant itself. After that it quits working for a living and just robs ants. What a trip. It didn't know how to do that - or had forgotten - when it came, but it learned.
Silence: the wind stopped one night and there was nothing but the sound my body makes in my ears; a rush, a ring, a pulse, I couldn't nail it; but there it was. There was no real silence. I can see how that might drive a man mad. If he sought true silence. I couldn't replicate the phenomenon later; too much breeze.
The heat. First day I went blithely about, drinking plenty of Gatorade and water but otherwise unsupervised, and got a touch of sunstroke. A headache, mild but ominous. I had serious heatstroke as a kid and it was as bad as it gets, so I lay down, popped a couple non-aspirin tabs and hoped it'd go away. It did around dusk but it would threaten to come back every time I started to push the limits. I learned from the park handout to soak my shirt and a bandanna for my head in water in the hottest hours. The water would come out of the pipes more than luke warm, almost soup-hot, but when I put the shirt on, it was almost too cold to stand. That's how hot my skin temperature must have been.
That's how hot it was. Hella experience. The heat and the magnificence. At night I'd lay on top of my sleeping bag naked with the stars wheeling overhead. I brought a star finder on my smart-ass phone (still couldn't figure anything out) and spectacles but I didn't need them. They were awesome in the deepest sense. How is it that I don't live where they are?
Yes, I asked myself that, and what came upon me then was a mighty fear of death. You can forget that living in the city where life is noisy and gray, but in all that stark beauty, all that lush minimalist rock-and-sky-and-wind gorgeousness, it drops you; or me; how could I leave that behind? The world without me, that's how I've played with the picture of my own death, and that's cool; but I missed the real thing: me without the world. Always hoped I'll have the wherewithal to off myself when I become non-functional, when I can't carry a thirty pound pack for five miles, but that sky and rock and view west said no, you'll never have the guts. There's this fear of death. And loneliness. The moment of such a choice would carry an unbearable loneliness. I don't know why, what the logic is, but it has always been there.
Now, I didn't go there looking for that thanatopsis (Yeah! I get to use that word!), it came naturally from the experience of being there and in among it. At night laying bare on the picnic table under the stars I ran through that and something - I'll never recall it but such twists come to me - made me laugh. And I concluded: the answer to the question of loneliness and fear is laughing. Is laughter. Is humor. Is a sense of humor. I made a song out of it and yelled it at the top of my lungs - since I was all alone - anyway my voice is all hoarse and old now and not so loud - and filmed it on my flip cam. It isn't lovely but it's on record. And yes, I recorded too that sometimes it just doesn't seem funny. Which seems funny.
Solitude. I came there for silence, stars, dark, heat, and solitude. Those were all missions. All beloved commodities.
I was alone there but for one man off to the west who came in after dark the first night, didn't disturb much, and left shortly after sunup. The next day was different; I was laying about tout nu when an adult couple parked their RV next to the bathroom structure a few campsites, say half a block, away and began unpacking to a table a few yards from their vehicle. Right off came the question not to be ignored; do I put on pants? Well, it might be neighborly but they were parked in TENT ONLY territory, NO RV territory and DAMNED IF I WOULD. These thoughts and their emanations and penumbra, as Justice Douglas wrote, dogged me until to my joy an hour later they pulled out and left. They were only there to eat. And the degree of relief was revelatory. What I derived from it was, no, it's not me being perverse, it's just the pleasure of not having to answer to the presence of other people.
Now, every once in a while a vehicle - usually a Park truck - would make a circle around the camp. I'd give a little wave to rangers which they'd return. Once, at night, a bicycle went around, fast and quiet, turning its light on only when it had to.
Third morning around dawn there was a solitary figure in silhouette on the west end of the south ridge, swinging its arms in some exercise or ritual; its arms and something longish in its arms but too thin to see. Numchucks, I thought at first, those kung fu sticks; then, no, batons, cheer leading practice; or, is that a hula hoop? Or a lariat? Is it a girl or a guy? A slim figure. I stood with my hand on my hips, watching, then felt self-conscious, can they see me? If so, won't this pose look, I don't know, provocative, or dumb, or something. So I put my arms down. A minute or so later the figure stopped its ritual and stood facing my way, hands on its hips.
Go out on the bike later, at the far end of camp near the entrance, a young guy and girl had a camp. Our eyes met, their look was vaguely unfriendly. Was one of them the ridge runner? The night bike? Did they hear my song?
The trip back started with a faint awkwardness, just an inept feeling as if the heat had affected my judgment and coordination - as if I couldn't do things quite competently with my hands. I'd checked the coolant coming in and it looked a little low; I'd tried to fill it but it just ran out the overflow tube, so that nagging insecurity colored the ride. Through the mountain passes I was particularly aware that I haven't really learned to take the curves at speed, I'm slower than four-wheel traffic, that I don't know how to judge the speed of the turn. In a parking lot I kicked at the kickstand and got off the bike, which fell over dead. The kickstand hadn't gone down, obviously. I was in my armored jacket, okay riding but way too hot standing. I was wasted from riding and disoriented. I tried to lift the bike upright, got it most of the way there, had to drop it back down. Tried it again. I'd only had to stand that 600 pounds upright once before, in good weather when I was rested and feeling strong. Then I eyed the situation, figured the physics, and succeeded. This time I couldn't think or act and couldn't get. It. Up. There was a strapping mechanic in the station garage and I figured he'd come to help and he did. Together we stood it up. Without him I'd've been there hours until I could marshal the force to accomplish that feat. Done, I was sweating like a horse and panting like a hound. Also sheared off a mounting bolt for a saddlebag so I had to jury-rig that to keep it from scraping the wheel as I rode.
Then I was counting the miles back - the ride was okay now, it got cooler going north on Five; I was making good time. About forty minutes from the end of a twelve hour ride the first drops of rain hit my windshield. I’d bet against rain - visibility tanks when rain hits that plexiglass. It seemed harmless at first but in ten minutes I had to stop, twice, to wipe it clear. The rain picked up and so did the traffic on 580, high speed rush hour; I had to slow to 50, squinting through the drops, trying to make out tail lights, then 30; then the rain totally filled the windshield. I was blind. I couldn’t see the lane lines - I’d thought I was in the rightmost, slow, lane, but two more lanes had fed in on the right and vehicles were slamming in front of me from over there. I was crawling at 15 mph, they were doing 70 or 80; I signaled right but they kept coming. For a few breaths there I thought I wouldn’t make it. There was a brief break and I pulled to the shoulder in a construction zone. I stood in muddy water, soaked and cold, and took stock. Finally I just removed the windshield and hid it behind a bush. The last twenty-five miles rode by all right.
Yes, I asked myself that, and what came upon me then was a mighty fear of death. You can forget that living in the city where life is noisy and gray, but in all that stark beauty, all that lush minimalist rock-and-sky-and-wind gorgeousness, it drops you; or me; how could I leave that behind? The world without me, that's how I've played with the picture of my own death, and that's cool; but I missed the real thing: me without the world. Always hoped I'll have the wherewithal to off myself when I become non-functional, when I can't carry a thirty pound pack for five miles, but that sky and rock and view west said no, you'll never have the guts. There's this fear of death. And loneliness. The moment of such a choice would carry an unbearable loneliness. I don't know why, what the logic is, but it has always been there.
Now, I didn't go there looking for that thanatopsis (Yeah! I get to use that word!), it came naturally from the experience of being there and in among it. At night laying bare on the picnic table under the stars I ran through that and something - I'll never recall it but such twists come to me - made me laugh. And I concluded: the answer to the question of loneliness and fear is laughing. Is laughter. Is humor. Is a sense of humor. I made a song out of it and yelled it at the top of my lungs - since I was all alone - anyway my voice is all hoarse and old now and not so loud - and filmed it on my flip cam. It isn't lovely but it's on record. And yes, I recorded too that sometimes it just doesn't seem funny. Which seems funny.
Solitude. I came there for silence, stars, dark, heat, and solitude. Those were all missions. All beloved commodities.
I was alone there but for one man off to the west who came in after dark the first night, didn't disturb much, and left shortly after sunup. The next day was different; I was laying about tout nu when an adult couple parked their RV next to the bathroom structure a few campsites, say half a block, away and began unpacking to a table a few yards from their vehicle. Right off came the question not to be ignored; do I put on pants? Well, it might be neighborly but they were parked in TENT ONLY territory, NO RV territory and DAMNED IF I WOULD. These thoughts and their emanations and penumbra, as Justice Douglas wrote, dogged me until to my joy an hour later they pulled out and left. They were only there to eat. And the degree of relief was revelatory. What I derived from it was, no, it's not me being perverse, it's just the pleasure of not having to answer to the presence of other people.
Now, every once in a while a vehicle - usually a Park truck - would make a circle around the camp. I'd give a little wave to rangers which they'd return. Once, at night, a bicycle went around, fast and quiet, turning its light on only when it had to.
Third morning around dawn there was a solitary figure in silhouette on the west end of the south ridge, swinging its arms in some exercise or ritual; its arms and something longish in its arms but too thin to see. Numchucks, I thought at first, those kung fu sticks; then, no, batons, cheer leading practice; or, is that a hula hoop? Or a lariat? Is it a girl or a guy? A slim figure. I stood with my hand on my hips, watching, then felt self-conscious, can they see me? If so, won't this pose look, I don't know, provocative, or dumb, or something. So I put my arms down. A minute or so later the figure stopped its ritual and stood facing my way, hands on its hips.
Go out on the bike later, at the far end of camp near the entrance, a young guy and girl had a camp. Our eyes met, their look was vaguely unfriendly. Was one of them the ridge runner? The night bike? Did they hear my song?
The trip back started with a faint awkwardness, just an inept feeling as if the heat had affected my judgment and coordination - as if I couldn't do things quite competently with my hands. I'd checked the coolant coming in and it looked a little low; I'd tried to fill it but it just ran out the overflow tube, so that nagging insecurity colored the ride. Through the mountain passes I was particularly aware that I haven't really learned to take the curves at speed, I'm slower than four-wheel traffic, that I don't know how to judge the speed of the turn. In a parking lot I kicked at the kickstand and got off the bike, which fell over dead. The kickstand hadn't gone down, obviously. I was in my armored jacket, okay riding but way too hot standing. I was wasted from riding and disoriented. I tried to lift the bike upright, got it most of the way there, had to drop it back down. Tried it again. I'd only had to stand that 600 pounds upright once before, in good weather when I was rested and feeling strong. Then I eyed the situation, figured the physics, and succeeded. This time I couldn't think or act and couldn't get. It. Up. There was a strapping mechanic in the station garage and I figured he'd come to help and he did. Together we stood it up. Without him I'd've been there hours until I could marshal the force to accomplish that feat. Done, I was sweating like a horse and panting like a hound. Also sheared off a mounting bolt for a saddlebag so I had to jury-rig that to keep it from scraping the wheel as I rode.
Then I was counting the miles back - the ride was okay now, it got cooler going north on Five; I was making good time. About forty minutes from the end of a twelve hour ride the first drops of rain hit my windshield. I’d bet against rain - visibility tanks when rain hits that plexiglass. It seemed harmless at first but in ten minutes I had to stop, twice, to wipe it clear. The rain picked up and so did the traffic on 580, high speed rush hour; I had to slow to 50, squinting through the drops, trying to make out tail lights, then 30; then the rain totally filled the windshield. I was blind. I couldn’t see the lane lines - I’d thought I was in the rightmost, slow, lane, but two more lanes had fed in on the right and vehicles were slamming in front of me from over there. I was crawling at 15 mph, they were doing 70 or 80; I signaled right but they kept coming. For a few breaths there I thought I wouldn’t make it. There was a brief break and I pulled to the shoulder in a construction zone. I stood in muddy water, soaked and cold, and took stock. Finally I just removed the windshield and hid it behind a bush. The last twenty-five miles rode by all right.
What a story, what a movie, a guy starts out on a journey and it feels just a little off, a little cursed, and stage by fateful stage it turns from a mundane off-day into a hellish ordeal.
But we all get home where food and bed and music and temperature control are and now we're back in normal life.
Great trip. Full of stuff, intense, varied, rich, flavored, what life should be. Except alone. But that’s another seminar.
