[photos and reference links coming in May]
I really was tired. Didn’t wake up until 0800. On a shrub nearby, a bird I’ve never heard with a white Venetian-style face mask sang a high melodic trilling song. _ _ _ _ _ – – _ _ _ __ . (After research later in the day, I think this was a black-throated sparrow.) If I’m drinking water the color of pee, will my pee be that much darker?
Although I strayed from the guidebook route on the dark ascent last night, cairns and footprints coincide with my path as I keep climbing up into what M+M call “no-man’s land.” It’s as described: beautiful, lonely, unmarked by people or cows except for the persistent tracks beaten into the ground, surely from other Haydukers. I wonder how long footprints last up here. Between the tracks and the authors’ directive to stay high, navigation is easy and I take it slow, enjoying. The ground is flat and covered with chert (a term I learn from the guidebook), mosaic tiles in red, white, black, purple, blue, yellow.
Jamal Green or Nic Barthe’s maps tipped me off to watch for a “large pothole” on the creek bed right near the turnoff to the Loop overlook. Great little oasis! More and clearer water than in the Indian Creek puddles. A big overhanging lip shades the whole area; house finches flit back and forth from a small tree by the water; there’s plenty of space to sit and rest on flat stone. Bet you could have cool animal sightings around here. I don’t know about the flash flood potential though. That Indian Creek water tastes like tea, rooibos.
I spend the whole hottest part of the day at the oasis. Start The Monkey Wrench Gang. Listen to the breeze. Watch cirrus clouds come closer. Breathe in deeply, trying to get the smell of the place stuck in me forever. Few places are neither too hot nor too cold; this is.
Is there anything more to life? Rather, what more is there to life? It depends on how you want to ask the question. As for me, I’m not sure. A few hundred thousand grains of sand slide down the side of a slope. The kingdom of moments, here.
– –
I’m standing at the highest pinnacle above the Loop of the Colorado, in awe and a little fearful. Before me, the Labyrinth. The Canyonlands. No masters here, only way-finders. (A new, and very old, notion for a human.) Few places are as low-risk yet sickeningly high-danger as the edge of a huge cliff. Looks like rain tonight, maybe. Clouds blowing in, some lenticulars hanging over the Abajo mountaintops. The sun dazzles off the river, the wind whips my clothing shhudududduddushudud. It’s impossible not to feel helpless. I’m less than 10 walking miles from civilization, but this landscape speaks a language of indifferent power and danger at every turn. And there are many, many turns.
Tonight I’m sleeping in a spot so fabulous I don’t even want to tell you about it. But for memory — an alcove with a gorgeous western view. I strung my tarp across to create an entire room. A moth the size of a hummingbird flew in with flappering wings so I caught him and handed him back to the open air. Saw no people today except for airplanes and the sound and dust of faraway buggies. So pleased with the tarp and site that I hope it rains. Excited for sunrise!