September 24, 2008
Grand Staircase Monument, Utah

About a week ago I was hiking through Zion and a bat flew right up to me, and as crazy as it may sound it paused running its sonar over me as a blind person would run their fingers over your face. I’ve been thinking about that encounter since, because some say to run into bat is to run into death.

Now the death we’re talking about here isn’t the literal death of the body, but instead it refers to a spiritual death. We are unable to be reborn spiritually without first moving through death.

At first I figured the transition from home and family in Colorado to me lugging my gear around in solitude and suffering was to make up this process, but as always it seems the universe had other ideas.

I was doing laundry in the town of Escalante on the 21st when I ran into a couple who had been backpacking throughout the Grand Staircase Monument, we discussed the state of the world, where we’re heading, and they gave me direction to head down Hole In The Rock Road. I did just that heading about twenty miles into the Staircase to a pull-off near the Dry Fork Slot Canyons to sleep.

The slot canyons were beautiful, and I spent a good amount of the next day taking photographs of these narrow channels of erosion. My friend Jeff loves slots, since as he puts it, “You realize how insignificant you are, a little human being deep down within a crack in the earth.” I’d have to agree.

I still haven’t found a place to buy a cheap digital camera, but I’m going to try to get some prints digitized in Moab of the images I’ve taken. But there’s also a part of me that feels that whatever this process is I’m going through there’s a reason I don’t have a digital camera on hand… but I am shooting film.

From the Dry Fork Slots I decided to go deeper into the Monument, another thirty miles of washboard gravel rattling Veronica’s bones, down to Fifty Mile Ridge Road. Due to deep sand I only made it halfway down the ridge to a circular pullout overlooking the landscape in all directions.

It’s similar to being out in the ocean, everywhere you turn, as far as the eye can see there’s nothingness, except in this case in the form of desert. I don’t know if it’s possible to feel any more alone. In the north you’re surrounded by trees, rivers, lakes… here there’s just dry heat, sage, lizards and coyotes waiting for you to run out of water, waiting for your car to break down, waiting for someone who isn’t prepared.

Luckily, I am. I have enough food and water for two weeks, three weeks rationing my intake. And even though I’m prepared the desert is still the perfect place to find humility.

I awoke at 6:45 on the 22nd to film the sunrise; I’m finding I’m more into capturing sunrises these days. I’m not sleeping much and mornings, although quite cool, have a certain peace to them.

After breakfast, I grab my camelback, protein bards, GPS, blanket and camera gear and head north away from the van, away from the bulk of my food and water.

It isn’t long before I’m well away from my van and the morning coolness is giving way to the desert sun. I’ve gone down into a wash and I feel as though I’m in what was once a swamp. The sand is deep and around me the protruding rock formations look swamp-like as well. There’s one in particular a large dome of rock with giant erosion sculptured lizards circling around it. It’s amazing how the rock has taken on these forms and its consistency with my own personal perspective.

I trudge on making my way out of the deep sand, past what I think is Hamblins Arch… and it hits me… an overwhelming sense of nausea. My knees grow weak and my body buckles over, my right hand sinks deep into the sand supporting me. I heave hard, hurling last nights dinner and this mornings breakfast into seemingly swampy dunes beneath me… My body contorts as images pass through my mind of my childhood, of the road up until now, of the people I’ve met and the places I’ve left behind.

I find a calm point so I suck in some water, then again my body purges itself, crippling me. In some strange way this also feels good, so I tell myself, ‘get it all out!’ I’m past food and into the realm of water and bile, but now waves of emotion are washing over me and I’m on the verge of tears. ‘Let it all go,’ I keep repeating between gasps for air, ‘let it all go.’

Then it stops… I stand up, I feel fine. Actually I feel great.

I stand for a moment, check myself, check my water, and kick up sand to bury my puke. I turn right away from that spot, and I don’t look back for a second, moving up out of the dunes onto the rock that makes up the middle ground.

I feel better; I find a nice spot there on solid ground and sit. I am thirsty now so I drink and fill the plastic dish for Moses. He’s been watching me, sitting by me, looking concerned, as if to say, ‘You better not die on me out here dad, cause I’ll be screwed.’ Either that, or, ‘Poor human, you thought you were the man eh, well I guess it’s time to wake up. Here’s some humility for you.’

We hike a bit further up the rock towards four large spires; the highest points around. Every time I think we’re almost there another wash reveals itself and I have to go down into the opening before rising again. I stop on the last mound before the spires fill the dish for Moses and drink. We’re down to about a liter and a half. I tell Moses to drink, it’s a command he’s learned out here, and he does, but only half the dish. I repeat, ‘drink!’ but now he just looks at me and continues on ahead of me. So I pick up the dish and carry it, we’re far from the van and water is too precious to waste.

So here I am, having just puked my whole being up, and now I’m carrying a dish around the desert for a dog… As I walk I am continuing up and down, in and out of gaps, but steadily I’m heading up, reaching the spires. Then it occurs to me that the way in which I’m carrying this dish of water, careful not to spill, makes it look as though I’m carrying an offering. I there was anyone else in that desert I’m certain that’s what they’d have thought.

Moses is running around having the time of his life, and I’m wondering who is the master now.

It has also occurred to me that the spires I’m rising up, the highest point for miles, in some way actually resemble some form of temple, or holy place. And this is strange to say, but I have a feeling of deep reverence.

Back in Alberta, on the Piikani Reservation, Morris and Betty Ann Littlewolf always demonstrated the value of offerings, whether in prayer or not. They always kept a bowl in the center of the table during meals: a spirit bowl for people to put food in so the spirits would not go hungry.

It now occurred to me that the desert pulled something out of me. The desert removed something I was carrying that wasn’t mine. I’m not sure what it was, or where it came from, but I think it was a bundle of things dating far back from throughout my life. Perhaps it was all the times I told myself I wasn’t good enough, all the times I told myself I wasn’t deserving, all the bad things others said to me, all the times I listened, all the bad moments that helped make up the lies I took to be true. Either way, whatever it was, I felt lighter and it only made sense to give something back. And what does a desert crave more than anything?

Water.

Now you’re not going to believe me, and that’s why I’ve captured it on film, but when I finally came up to the final mound decorated with spires the rock beneath my feet was filled with the faces of old people. One upon another were the faces of grandmothers and grandfathers outlined by the cracks weathered into the stone. And towering up above me was a spire clearly shaped like a dog/coyote baying at the moon. And the moon was quarter full there above us in broad daylight.

I stood in a mix of shock and humility… What was going on? How could this be? I know I’m not losing my mind, it’s there plain as day? But how could this be?

In my excitement I almost leapt upon the stone monument making my way up it, but wait. I sat thinking and pulled the 8mm camera from my bag and filmed both the faces in the rock and the towering dog/coyote above me. Then I figured before I cross this final threshold onto this monument I should circle it. I began walking around it water in hand, and soon I was on it spiraling up it making my way closer and closer to nature’s sculpture. As I climbed a phrase entered my head that I haven’t been able to let go of since.

Spirituality is not in what we do, but in how and why we do it.

There I was, the desert sun now blazing down on me, literally drained empty but also somehow revived. I felt like I had everything taken from me, but at the same time it was never mine to begin with, and for everything that was taken away, new things entered. The universe giveth and taketh away, and the universe giveth yet again. It’s not up to me and I should remember that. Stay humble, take care of yourself (it’s always first thing to do), and try my best to accept the things I don’t always understand. Not only accept but also be grateful to be here to experience this mystery of life in the first place.

So there I am, sun now hot as hell, rounding the final side of the circular mound, and I come to the place I’ve been working towards. And there at the base of that coyote/dog, in that space where I bow my head and pour my water offering is just the thing Moses and I need right now… shade.

I throw down my blanket, fill the dish again for Moses, drink some water myself, and lay back to share some beef jerky with that brave dog of mine, who now seems to be saying, ‘Poor human, I know it’s hard, but I think you’re starting to get it… Mmmmm, thanks for the jerky, It was just what I needed.’

peace, d