Man's Hubris And The Precipice Of A Pandemic

 

 Hey you. You're still here... of course you are, it's me that is still around. I came to visit you for a brief moment. Maybe admire you for a bit. Flow through this place for awhile. It is sure quiet here, the hubris of man still shows out here. But you're still at it, slowly removing what we do. You do you, and I'll try and be more like that. Perfection in the entropy.

I like this place a lot.

 It's a harsh, wild place. The soil is alkaline, The water is unpalatable, and the walls tell so many stories.  It's about as remote as you can get. A small portion of the country that was too rugged to farm or attempt homesteading during manifest destiny. Uranium mining was attempted but they never hit pay dirt. Too much work for what can be extracted. You don't take physical things from here. This is the mantra here, adapt to it. The plants are salty loving life and this results in poor feed for grazing. There are some roads that criss-cross the country here and there, but the washboards are too thick and the roads are too far from the pavement for the mouth breathers to flock too. We are way past the areas where bullet casing line the ground, and the occasional decoration of your aunts forgotten couch. Those rings around the city that are lined with old computer parts and TV's are miles away here.  We hop over the fences and are peeling open and climbing into this place.

...And god is it so quiet out here because of all of that. I think the jets that are absent above even avoid flying over this no mans land. My refuge. My moment of reprieve.

  To get down here usually takes a week. A day of driving and hopefully getting vehicles in place for an exit plan and several days of paddling, side hikes into labyrinths and packing water for days. In our case, dragging your boat through the never ending sand bars. Avoiding the rocks and the Chaco eating quicksand. But we figured out a expedited version to dip our toes in this place over a long weekend. 


 

  As Doom suggested. Scope the take out. Previous trips let us into the lake, and a short paddle to where our cars were waiting. But this time was different. The water level fluctuated enough early in the spring to make us concerned for an easy out. The silt filled valley and the small gash that cut through it looked vexing. Years of sediment that ungracefully let go of the life it was given was now out of synchronisticy. It lost its essence and was released and neutered to the bottom of a lifeless lake. It was too chaotic and unnatural for this slow river to cut through. No jazz was taking place down here. Now the flow was lost in a sea of sediment that is cutting down into arroyos. Lined and filled with willows and tamarisks that chock its banks and wreak havoc for us travelers. We had to get out earlier than we had planned.


 It was a thrash fest. Looking back I'm not sure exactly what happened now, Perhaps type 3 fun, but I should have listened to myself. Multiple exits were scoped out from "above" the day before, but the one I planned on using was the only one that we ultimately ended up using. Why? Because I walked down to the fucking river the day before and dipped my toes in the fucking water, stuck a stick in the bank and said. "This is the goddamn exit!" Because I did not want to get lost down there soaking wet and cold, pushing a bike with a raft strapped to my back.

  But the next day I was cursing and wailing in the thick of the winter willows like a man child. Shins and forearms in shads of red while my temper got the best of me. Yeah fuck this, I'm going the way I know that works. Come on bike, let's go for a hike. 

I'm getting a head of myself here. Let's go back to the back beginning here. 

  Like all good trips, we duck out of work early,  and spend hours in the car to a far corner or in this case, center of the great beehive state. We try to get to camp just in time to have a beer and watch the light fade out. A few moments of us trying to decide if the water is moving, or if it has begun its slow progression towards stagnation and death. Conversations took place. Casazen was there. Some firewood was brought out and the great washing machine drum was there to gather around and keep us warm.  Camp was a large party that ended at roughly 8:45pm and sometime after 10:00pm the Knuckerls rolled into camp and quickly setup their sleeping arrangements before all was quiet on the riverfront.

 It was a lazy morning that got rolling by mid morning.   A few last minute preparations and we loaded our packrafts on our bikes for a few mile jaunt up the highway before jumping on an abandoned mining road to our put in several hours later. I was generally surprised by how well the dirt road was to ride. A breeze really. Morning temps were superb, wind was light and the sun bathed us in its warmth. The scenery was stellar as we rode through the remains of the late Pennsylvanian Cutler group. 

  The country laid out before us was raw and untouched. To the untrained eye there is nothing to see here in these parts. Dirt rocks and some barren waste land that is thinly lined with bushes struggling to grab what water is few and far between. I beg to differ. The longer you look at it, this place reveals itself. 

  I see a land of intention. A monument to time and patience. The great mover of time. Energy and the brief moment of balance we find of ourselves in. Entropy looks void here, but it is moving toward something. Something we like to pretend to know, something ultimately we'll never know. Everywhere, in all of this, it is all playing out before us. Laid out in beautiful layers and periods of movement.  Suspended for us to enjoy. Ultimately though, is it even for us, but just random chance? That's the magic of it.

Is it wrong to look away?



  I shift through gears and pedal through the washes as the road climbs and turns through the land. We seem to slowly flow downhill while we continually keep moving up river. The river that was far below us then, is slowly becoming near. We are meeting it halfway. It's genuine because of this.

  An occasional meander shows itself and we peer into the dark labyrinth. Walls blanketed in shadows and the faint noise of the currents moved below our feet. A few rocks are cast down to determine its depth. We watch the splashes dissipate but our crude yardsticks fail us. The rocks sink deep enough to tell us we can get back to the car for the most part. Not too concerned, We move on. 

  Our dirt road eventually turns to singletrack and we begin to find sign of our fellow heifers. I think we stopped and transitioned in their favorite afternoon hang spot. "We are the freaks here." I thought to myself as I disassembled my bike. And like a meth addict, tie said bike in pieces to the top of my rubber raft.

  Mama cow watches from a safe distance. Surely they're thinking, "What the fuck are the humans doing now...?"  They hold back. I'd stand back too if I new any better. These humans are contrived!

 I watch my feet disappear in the water. Try to gauge how deep it goes. I am welcomed by a knee deep river of something that imitates a melted chocolate shake that is moving around my legs as we drag the boats in and push off. Mud dripping into my dry raft now.

  Our small scrappy canyon has taken shape now and opened up before us. At the beginning the walls were short and the sky peered in. But now they had begun to take over and narrowed us in. Moments of shade were traded for brief moments of sun. The clouds above us, the varnish paintings on the walls, and the swirls of chaos moved on the surface below. 

  A brief wind came down through here. Tunneling down through the canyons. Moments of time bathed in sun made me appreciate it's company as it was closed in by moments absent of that thin veil of warmth. These canyon are filled with random performances. Playing out everyday.

  This place is filled with motion even when we think it's all still. The rocks are wishing to fall and the canyon holds them back. Your time will come my friend. We all wait our turn here. If you spend enough time out here, you'll realize this place is a landscape filled with intention. The ruggedness and extremity of this place makes these moments more obvious than a much gentler place would lead you to believe. Every object pushes on another. Wind against rock, rock against water. Time against us.

  I left a piece of me in this maze of sandstone, feelings and sensations that will lead me back, sensations that will be with me days from now, likely decades. These sensations were not restricted to my eyes or tongue. I felt them. Everything that I came across entered through me like a dream. A dream I knew all too well. Miles of topography memorized, spread out before me. I was moving through my maps. I was moving through time.

  A brief struggle on feet and we were all back in the saddle. Greeted by asphalt and lines that keep us in our lane; lead us back to our cars. The lickers washed off the mud behind a small shower curtain and two doors open to save us and fellow passerby's from the show. There is a pit toilet here to enjoy. If you prop the door open enough you have a million dollar view from your throne. That is worth enjoying. Plus it let's some fresh air in.  

  That night I distinctly remember talk of "If we have heard of Corona.." and, "If it'll come to the states?" I also remember Heather looking directly at Kb and saying, "It's not if, but when."