Northern Arizona is Amazing

After a stint at Grandma’s place in Mesa where we were tied to exploring a general region, it was great to jump into the freedom of vanlife again! From here on, our direction was northward, and it was all new territory. Such a beautiful feeling, treading into the unknown.

We set off down the ribboning highway to Northern Arizona, where the nights are cool and green exists in other forms beside cacti. I was aware we had some climbing ahead of us, but I didn’t realize how steep the road would be. By some standards, it wasn’t that steep, but when you’re in a one-ton van with a weak motor, you notice even slight inclines.

The van actually quit one time for working hard in the intense heat of the day. Luckily, there was a pull-off with a viewpoint not far ahead, and I was able to restart her and drive another mile to find a nice spot to enjoy lunch. Life on the road is good at teaching one to seize opportunities when they come, by whatever means they arrive. After enjoying the view and letting the engine cool for half an hour, Nyma and I set off and made it to one of our long-awaited destinations that afternoon: Sedona.

Wonder in Sedona

Since first hearing about Sedona a few months before, my curiosity had been piqued. Naturally, I kept hearing more as I drew closer, and my interest only grew. It had highlining, rock climbing, mountain biking, trail running, and hiking, all at elevation for an added boost of fitness. The only thing missing from this little paradise was waves.

Sedona is held in reverence by many people for its unique red rock structures and mysterious vortices where trees grow in spirals. Depending who you talk to, these vortices are the result of either magic, magnetism, or cosmic energy. Regardless of how you explain them, they seem to attract all kinds of people.

The first person I met in town was a kid my age working in a crystal shop. He said he was drawn to Sedona a few months ago and was there until he learned the lesson life intended him to. What that was, he couldn’t say exactly. But he felt once he learned it, he would know. There are worse ways to find a home than intrigue, I think.

Naturally, we had to climb to get a good view.

I didn’t see a vortex for myself, but I did see some crazy rock formations, unique river rocks, and everywhere I looked seemed straight out of a postcard. Even at the Starbucks I worked at one day, the backdrop was a giant red cliff in the middle of town. It must be inspiring living with views like that every day. I certainly could have gotten used it.

One of the hikes Nyma and I did took us along red dirt trail, past some dry washes, and into a canyon surrounded by stellar rock formations. We tried to stay on the trail, but it didn’t offer many good viewpoints. When that’s the case, there’s only one solution: forge your own trail.

Tired pup enjoying the view of Sedona.

Sadly, we only had two days to spend in Sedona. We managed a couple hikes, a run, and some sightseeing, in addition to getting a bit of remote work done. Another thing I noticed was our van fit right in. There was some great camping just west of town, and we saw plenty of other vandwellers as we searched for a spot around dusk. It seemed like a nice little community.

Sedona was really one of my favorite places on our road trip, and I wish we could have stayed longer. If we were going to check destinations off our list, though, we had to get rolling! Thankfully, Sedona was just a warm-up to some of the sights we were yet to see. Next stop: The Grand Canyon.

Sunup to Sundown: One (Full) Day at the Grand Canyon

Our timing was perfect–the day we spend at the Grand Canyon happened to be the last day of the month: Halloween. After camping in the National Forest right outside the park, we woke up at 5AM to get to the Canyon before sunrise to see a good show. I know I said I don’t wake often for sunrise, but Grandma told me it had to be done. Who was I to argue with that?

I’ve gotta say, the show did not disappoint. When the sky began to glow and the clouds blazed with fiery sunlight, I was really glad to be a spectator.

We rode the shuttles all the way to the end of the road, getting out at various viewpoints along the way. Signs along the way serve to educated visitors about what they’re looking at. They point out how layers of sediment tell the story of the land, dating back hundreds of million of years. It is fun to imagine; impossible to fathom.

One thing I couldn’t wrap my head around was that at one point in time, all of it was underwater. That piece of the story is very hard to imagine when you’re standing at 7,500 feet. Though parts of the canyon do resemble the bottom of an ocean, in some ways.

Still, the awe of it all never wore off. Every time I looked down into the canyon, my reaction was always the same. “What the–?” Comprehending the canyon is not something one can expect to do in a day. I’m not sure what amount of time would be enough, though: a month, a year, a lifetime?

Light crept slowly into the canyon throughout the day, revealing ripples and colors hidden in the shadows. Colors transformed throughout the day as the sun traced its arc: red, orange, yellow, purple. By sundown, I felt like I was looking onto a different canyon.

One of the best parts of living in this age of technology and working a remote job: you can find WiFi everywhere. Even the Grand Canyon. Okay, maybe not in the canyon, but at the visitors center. To be honest, it was a little spotty, but I managed to log a few hours and get out again in time to see the sun set.

 

From sunup to sundown, Halloween at the Grand Canyon was a success. We even got candy from a friendly employee who was feeling the spirit. It was nice gesture I remember vividly, especially since no one else acknowledged it was a holiday. The older I get, the more I seem to appreciate the little things.

In the spirit of Halloween, I was inspired to have a fire that night. Bundled up with a beer around the warm glow of flames, Nyma and I sat listening to coyotes yip somewhere in the night. It was the perfect ending to an action-packed day.

Vanlife isn’t all peaches and cream, but it’s days like this that remind me that it’s all worth it.

New to the journey? Catch up on our Adventure Van series and live vicariously through Nyma and me!

Adventure Van: Bishop, CA

As we descended farther down the hill the snowy peaks of the mountains faded away and a desert unfolded before us. Everything was bleached gold by the sun. The blue oasis of Mono Lake eventually appeared and I knew my destination wasn’t much farther.

Bishop, CA—an outdoor enthusiast’s dream. Rock climbing, mountain biking, alpine hiking, mountains, rivers, lakes. Sitting in the shadow of the Eastern Sierras, it has incredible access to nearly any kind of outdoor activity you can imagine. With a population of only 4,000, the light pollution is almost nonexistent, and starry skies are just icing on the cake.

It is quite popular among the transient community of vandwellers and car campers that traverse around North America. Based on my experience, Bishop has a siren’s call for rock climbers, luring them from crags far and wide. Moab, Yosemite, Sedona, Smith Rock, Indian Creek…Bishop holds a place among them.

Like most of those transients, I often found myself at the local watering hole (coffeeshop in this case) to do my remote work—the Black Sheep. I got a lot of work done and met some quality people here. This is also where I wrote my birthday post reflecting on the past year. If you’re searching for someone and they’re not on the rock, chances are good they’re at the Black Sheep. They roast their own coffee, have great prices, and you’re guaranteed a memorable conversation or two. Stop on by if you’re in the area—you’re in for a treat.

The Path to Bishop’s Pass

One of my first days there I joined a couple friends for a hike at South Lake. Starting at a lake at 9,000 feet, we climbed gradual switchbacks until we reached a plain with lakes. This was Bishop’s Pass, an oasis nestled among towering mountains. Despite the elevation, the hike felt pretty easy. Naturally, I got the idea to try running it later in the week.

Now, having hiked a lot and run occasionally my whole time on the road, I was in pretty good shape. At least I thought so when I began the run at my normal pace. Turns out running at elevation is a totally different beast from hiking. Within three minutes I was huffing, blood throbbing in my temples, and had to stop to walk for a minute. By slowing my pace to about 10-minute miles I was able to make it up to the pass, around the lakes, and back again in one piece. Boy, was it a workout!

The beautiful scenery of Bishop’s Pass

Nyma had no role in stoking my confidence, who appeared to be totally unaffected by the altitude. She continuously raced ahead to sniff out the trail, circled back to me, and raced ahead again. It caught up to her at the pass, though. Her tongue hung practically to the ground and she was panting hard. A few gulps of the crystal lake water and she was good to go, though this time lagging behind me for a change.

By the time we got back to the van, we were both ready for a nap. Nyma passed out right then and there while I drank a kombucha and ate a burrito I had forgotten about until that moment. It is times like these that I love having a solar-powered fridge in the van!

From there, we drove up the road to Lake Sabrina and found a spot on an island to read and play fetch. The water glistened with sunshine and the breeze had a faint hint of autumn, chilly enough to persuade me to find shelter beside a rock. I was reading Howl’s Moving Castle at the time and it was quite enchanting—even more so with a spectacular view in front of me whenever I looked up. It was a lovely afternoon of rest and recovery. Well deserved after a brutal run.

The view at Lake Sabrina. Not bad, eh?

But the day got better! After this I met up with the gang the Happy Boulders on the other side of town. It was late in the day, so I mostly hung out while the others climbed. After an afternoon alone, I was grateful for the company.

As dusk approached, Nyma and I ventured up high to catch the sunset. We made our way up and over huge boulders (at one point I even had to lift Nyma because she couldn’t make the jump) to find a vantage point. Here, the world opened up onto a vast plateau. I knew it eventually dropped off, but it appeared to go on forever.

It gave me the sensation of being on another world. The sky was drenched in hues of gold and rose, silhouettes of mountains painted the horizon. I stared, mesmerized, until the swirling shadows of twilight reminded me to get back to the group. We found them walking down the hill—perfect timing.

The winds started that night. Clouds of dirt swept across our headlights, obscuring the road from sight. At one point, we had to stop and wait for the road to appear again. As we neared the house my friends were staying at, police lights flashed in the blackness. A trailer had been caught in the wind and blown sideways off its wheels to lay across the road. Cops were directing traffic up onto the sidewalk, around the trailer and a tree.

The winds blew harshly all night and I felt very cozy tucked in my warm bed. Even when living the vanlife, you don’t take shelter for granted in stormy weather.

Conquering Fear and Rocks

Naturally, I did a fair share of rock climbing while in Bishop. It’s one of the biggest draws of the area, so you’re kind of missing out if you don’t climb when you visit. Bouldering and top roping on granite and volcanic tuft—whatever was on the agenda for the day. Each situation offers challenges of its own, though the prevailing constant is fear.

Of the two modes of climbing, bouldering is definitely the more dangerous. You may not climb as high, but your only safety net is the crash pad. The ground can feel a long ways away when you’re dealing with a crux 20 feet up. Climbing on ropes always gets my adrenaline pumping, though. Looking down when I’m 50 feet up or more always makes my hands sweaty. While my first instinct is to stop moving, it is very satisfying to ignore that and keep going.

People often say they could never climb because they have a fear of heights. Many climbers I know (and highliners too, for that matter), say that fear is the very reason they got into climbing. It’s all about your mindset. Are you going to let your fears dictate your life, or will you take control and face them? It’s very healthy to conquer your fear. If that’s the only thing I do in a day, I consider it a success. The elation that comes from that can go a long way.

The most challenging climbs I did were in the Owens River Gorge. Long routes that were just about the right difficulty for me tested my technique and endurance. A few times I got stuck—a move looked too hard, my arms were trembling, calves cramping, fingers slipping—but I reached for a hold and got it, moved on to a point where I could rest.

One route in particular was so long I considered giving up halfway. I was on a ledge and the next section looked really exposed. As I waited for my muscles to rest, it became clear to me the longer I waited, the less likely I was going to finish the climb. Before I could dissuade myself or consciously decide otherwise, I was reaching up for the next hold. Without fear or doubt clouding my mind, I made it to the top the slap the chains and let out an excited yip that echoed throughout the valley.

In my experience, the best athletic results come when you turn off your conscious mind and allow instinct to take over. This is called flow. Regardless if your talking to athletes, musicians, artists, writers, coders, etc., flow is the mental state we are all trying to reach. It is where the magic happens. As far as I can remember, that was the first time I had achieved flow while rock climbing. Only now can I begin to understand the immense appeal of the sport.

Of course, two weeks in this awesome place wasn’t long enough, and I’ve only just scratched the surface of everything that happened. This may call for a follow-up post.

If you’re just tuning in, catch up on my West Coast adventures!

Adventure Van (Part 2): A Weekend in Yosemite

Driving east from the ‘burbs of San Francisco, our compass pointed in one direction: Yosemite National Park. After spending a long stint in civilization, it was high time to unplug and wander in the woods for a weekend.

One of my goals in setting out on this trip was to see as many National Parks as I could, and Yosemite was the first. Nyma didn’t know it at the time, but we were gearing up for some epic hikes. That’s one thing I really admire about dogs—they never know how far they’re going, but they always give 100% and are stoked as hell. Just one of the many lessons we can learn from dogs.

As we neared the entrance, we pulled off on the side of the road and slept under a star-studded sky. The cold made them shimmer like winter, and my excitement to be visiting Yosemite again made sleep slow to come. My dreams that night were filled with mountains and memories.

Hike to Glacier Point via Four-Mile Trail

We woke with the sun and were among the first to enter the park—a feat only possible for me when adventure is on the agenda. After a cup of coffee and a bowl of yogurt and granola, we hit the famous Four-Mile Trail. This 9.6 round-trip trail climbs about 3,200 feet from the valley floor to one of the most epic lookouts in the park.

It was a chilly morning, but between the elevation gain and our pace we worked up a sweat pretty soon. I don’t usually take many breaks when I’m hiking, but this hike was an exception. As we climbed switchback after switchback, it seemed like every few feet posed another amazing view of the sprawling valley below, an impressive rock face, or a rainbow-haloed waterfall.

View near the beginning of Four-Mile Trail.

Eventually we rounded a bend to find the magnificent presence of Half Dome peeking through the trees. Talk about a rock feature! Scraped clean on one side and towering above the valley, it is a testament of the powerful earthly forces that sculpted this landscape.

View of Yosemite Valley and Half-Dome from Four-Mile Trail.

At last we reached the top of the trail and found ourselves among many onlookers at Glacier Point. A road extends all the way here so it’s possible to drive, but where’s the fun in that? We all know a view is always better when you earn it. If you’re looking for a viewpoint that is more remote and are willing to work for it, Cloud’s Rest offers the best view in the park, hands down.

Regardless of accessibility, views like this are incredible and I urge everyone to see them with their own eyes. See the snowy peaks, the glistening granite, the waterfalls splashing rocks far below; feel the breeze flowing in the valley, your shirt flapping in the wind; sneeze when the sun and pine sap tickles your nose.

 

Maybe forgetting to send that email isn’t such a big deal after all…

And while you’re there, try to fathom the geological story of this epic valley–how long it took to create and the powerful forces behind it. Glacial ice and water slowly carving this valley over millions and millions of years. Compared to this, we are just motes of dust existing for a blink of an eye.

Yet we spend our time worrying about how to make more money and what other people think about us. Do you ever wonder at the absurdity of it all?

Epic view of Half Dome and a waterfall. How does beauty like this exist?

We made good time coming down and enjoyed a nice nap in the van before heading out to find a campsite. There’s no free camping in the National Parks, so this was one of the few times we had to pay for camping on our trip. We enjoyed a beautiful drive up Tioga Road to Porcupine Flat, a first-come, first-serve campsite where I had good luck last time.

After lending a lighter to our neighbors to start their fire, we got invited to share the warmth. And boy, was it was welcome, because it got cold that night! We drank a few beers, shared some stories and laughs, and Nyma had some extra hands to throw the frisbee by firelight.

Campfires are an ancient, sacred thing that have a special way of bringing people together. Not only can I bask in the warmth for hours, but the world seems so much simpler when it is reduced to a ring of stones and people around a fire. With our spirits soothed by conversation and dancing flames, we all enjoyed a night of untroubled sleep.

Finding Zen at Lower Cathedral Lake

To compliment our 10-mile hike the previous day, we hiked another seven miles (round-trip) to Lower Cathedral Lake. Starting from the roadside trailhead in Tuolomne Meadows, this hike is a gradual climb through lodgepole pine forest before opening up to a crystal-clear alpine lake.

The forest was covered in snow this time of year, and Nyma was stoked! She bit, rolled, and slid all over that shit. She chomped snowballs into oblivion. Seeing her play in the snow is always worth a good laugh.

Nyma in her element.

We were pretty tired once we got there, so we found a quiet spot across the lake to lay down for a nap. It seemed silly that everyone was gathered on the shore nearest the trail with the view of Cathedral Peak behind them. But hey, I wasn’t complaining.

The crystal-clear waters of Lower Cathedral Lake.

All you chumps are looking the wrong way. The view is that way!

As the sun glistened in the crisp, blue sky and skitter bugs drew ripples on the water, I dreamt. It was one of those peaceful dreams where the dreamworld blends with reality and you feel only half-asleep but wake feeling extra refreshed. I followed that up with some meditating and wrote in my journal.

Of course, I was playing fetch with Nyma the whole time with the uncanny talent for multi-tasking that every dog owner or parent picks up. Nyma won’t go in the water farther than her legs can touch, but she loves splashing in the shallows for a stick. She can’t get enough of it! We hung out at that lake close to three hours, napping, daydreaming, and playing fetch. It was a perfect day.

Nyma guarding her freshly-caught stick.

Winter Comes Early in the Sierras

After our peaceful day at the lake, the icing on the cake was learning that the Tuolomne Meadows campsite was still open. I was worried we were going to have to backtrack and waste a lot of gas, but our timing was perfect. Apparently all the pipes were starting to freeze, and we caught the last night of the season. We were honored to help close it down.

The ranger told me to keep Nyma close on a leash because they’d had coyotes scare dogs away from their owners while the rest of the pack waited in the forest. I wasn’t worried Nyma would be eaten by the coyotes, but feared she would be taken in as one of their own. No, that I couldn’t live with; I heeded his advice.

Not that we stayed up late, anyway. As soon as the sun disappeared the temperature plummeted. The meager fire I made from handfuls of sticks was enough for about an hour of warmth, then we called it a night. It was only September, but because of the elevation it was by far the coldest night on our whole trip. I didn’t have my awesome Marmot bag, so I piled on every blanket in the van and let Nyma curl up next to me. I still woke several times in the night, shivering.

You plan as much as you can, but there’s bound to be some hardship on any journey. I vouched to have my sister bring my sleeping bag when we met at Grandma’s house in Mesa, AZ.

After losing ourselves in the epic woods of Yosemite for a weekend, our compass now pointed southeast to Bishop, where we would spend a couple weeks with one of my best buddies, Dallas. He found himself there a couple years ago and has been there ever since. There’s gotta be something special about a place like that, right?

To be continued…

If you missed the first post in my adventure van series, be sure to check it out! 

Ghost Ship

This past winter I spent a month on the Cayman Islands and did over a dozen dives. While all of the dives were great, the day my cousin and I explored the wreck of the U.S.S. Kittiwake stands out as being particularly awesome. It’s very difficult to describe what diving feels like to anyone who’s never done it before, but I’m going to try anyway. 

 

As we swim through a cloud of sand stirred up by the current, the bow of a ship appears like a ghost from the ethereal. One hundred fifty feet of steel from bow to stern, leaning slantways 60 feet below the surface. An aircraft carrier swallowed long ago by the very waves it used to command. Now it lies here in the Caribbean, far from its soldiers’ memories.

Down the length of the mammoth we glide, taking in its presence with our eyes. A line of fish parade across the deck, mollusks adorn its sides, knobs of steel calcified. We circle around the back to a gaping port hole and find the beginning of every explorer’s dreams—a door to the unknown.

Deprived of our ability to speak underwater, my cousin and I use hand signals to communicate. Jason faces me and signs mind your tank – don’t bump your regulator loose or you’re screwed. I sign okay. He leans forward, gives a few kick of his fins, and disappears into the ship. Experienced divers can portray a lot with just a few gestures.

I hover outside the ship a moment longer, catching my breath and calming my mind. There are moments in life that are symbolical, moments where you have a choice that will greatly influence your life. On one side is safety and the world as you already know it; on the other side is fear and a stronger version of yourself. Whenever I find myself in a situation like that, I try to always choose fear.

Plunging into the darkness after my cousin, a chill washes over me as I enter colder waters. I remember the flashlight hanging on my BC and flick it on. The lights grant us vision in the perpetual darkness. Briefly, I note that a plane of steel now stands between me and the ocean surface. A thought too disconcerting to entertain, I push it from my mind.

As I kick slowly through the room, I watch my air bubbles float up and slide across the ceiling. It’s incredibly disorienting. Even more so when we drift slowly through a doorway to a tunnel. Naturally, I rotate 30 degrees in order to float through “straight.” I realized this was purely out of habit and laughed to myself; orientation is arbitrary with no gravity.

Floating down that dark tunnel, I had an epiphany. It was one of those moments where the world around me was so unique, such a different sensory experience than any I’d had before, I felt to inhabit some space between life and dream. I was an astronaut floating in zero-gravity through a ship in deep space. I could have also just as likely been asleep and dreaming. An eery silence pervaded all, interrupted only by the distant rasp of my own breath.

Diving in a ship, your breathing slows way down and your movements follow suit. Every motion is slow, methodical. Never do anything rushed or panicked. You can’t afford that down here—any mistake could lead to death. And you can’t think about that, either, or you will find yourself panicking. No, it is best to just move slow and keep calm. Diving is a practice of zen.

For the next twenty minutes, that ship was our playground. Swimming down hallways with curious fish, diving headfirst down stairs, our fins stir up debris, tracing our path through the ghost ship like footprints in the sand.

Though it is empty now, there remain signs of its violent past. Orange-red rust decorates cannons, a turret on the bow. Coral brachia stem from the face of the corroding steel. It is a fact that nature reclaims everything, eventually.

Finally, we emerge from the darkness and find ourselves floating in a sunlit cathedral—a golden beam shining through a hole in the roof. If the port hole was our call to adventure, this was our light at the end of the tunnel.

Photo Credit: Elly Wray via Flickr

Bleeding Colors

Sunlight trickles through a labyrinth of branches overhead, while I lay silent listening to the wind a-stirring. Inhale the breath of morning with my face impressed in grass. A fox on my right arm pins me down while the elephant on my left helps me create.

Ideas flow like water onto the page. Once they are brought to life, they inspire reality to change. Even a tiny stream can carve dry, desert sand; if there’s a tree to drink, it will transform the land.

The trees chatter overhead, trunks swaying and leaves splashing their secrets. If only I could hear what they have to say…Still, I get the general sense – the feeling transcends words.

I am connected to this tree, just as this tree is connected to the land. And that goes for all people, all life on this bountiful planet. Maybe, if I didn’t pass through brief as the wind, I could understand what the tree was saying without losing details in translation.

As I wander, I leave behind a trail of scent. My presence lingers like a ghost, invisible except for my footprints. Follow them if you wish – they’ll lead you to a stream where they stop short because I’ve joined the cycle that knows no time, which has and will be spinning long before and after we’re all dead.

Lotus blossoms bleed color in the water. Trickling down the stream, they get lapped up by curious creatures and manifest in their dreams. How does a single thought change the world? Just as a pebble paints the surface of a silent, starry lake.

Eyes of the Forest

As I wander your meandering paths, I delve further into my pondering mind. Searching for nothing, discovering everything. In your arms, I feel safe.

You teach me to be open, even when I’m closed off to myself. You free my spirit like a curious falcon borne on wings that don’t rely on the wind to sail, but stir their own wind so I may fly as high as the clouds or skim across the shimmering waters of dreams.

Shadows wrap around me like a warm blanket, comforting me from a noise that never seems to relent. Except in here. Except with you. In your embrace, I feel safe.

Look there, fir feathers glisten silver in sunlight. Dripping with mist. Splashing my hair and shoes with dirt. I hear a subtle harmony; your songbirds sing the melody.

You of many voices. One which calls to me, echoing. At first, I shrug it off, too distant to care. Then it calls again and I know I must investigate.

Perched among the shadows, your snow-grey feathers catch my eye immediately. I thought you would be harder to spot. I’ve only seen you once, out of how many times I’ve been here? Perhaps this time because I’m looking; perhaps because you want to be seen.

Your head turns and two dark ovals fall upon my face: depthless and penetrating. Like a mirror, you reflect parts of me I don’t usually see. I feel naked, I want to flee. Instead, I stare deeper into your eyes and confront the feelings that arise.

My dogs can’t see you, but they feel you near. This is your sanctuary. Your presence fills the air. They look at me, wondering if they should be worried. My stillness keeps them calm; your stillness has me captivated.

You wonder why we’re here—these furry beasts and me? You smell a lineage that’s been diluted, but still contains traces of your ancestry. Memories of predators you’ve lived beside. They’ll never earn your trust, but you’ll permit them passage. I read all this in your eyes.

As I turn away, I feel something nudge inside me. Something becoming unstuck. I turn and mouth a thank you: “The spirit in me recognizes the spirit in you. We are one and the same. Namaste.”

Prophets of a Lost Generation

Rusted sand and sage-ribboned dunes

stretch far as the eye can see.

Tattoos fade and nostalgia ripens

Like the bitter fruit of our intentions—

A mystery even to ourselves.

This is the desert where we waste our youth.

Geckos slurp our spit from rocks,

While rattlers laze in the noontide sun,

Every day seems hotter than the last,

Until night prowls around, offering peace

On the melodic wings of insects.

This is the desert where we waste our youth.

We used to wonder our destination,

Keep track of where we’d been,

Until the desert rainstorms washed away

our footprints, our compass, our map.

Only then could we find the way.

This is the desert where we waste our youth.

Everything that once felt important

No longer carries the weight.

As the desert shifts with the wind,

So is a moment erased by time,

Except when we stop to bottle the sand.

This is the desert where we waste our youth.

Chickadees wing the violet dusk,

As clouds swirl ‘round the moon,

Your voice casts a spell over dancing flames

Stoking the fire higher and brighter,

While we get drunk on impossibilities.

This is the desert where we waste our youth.

Our youth is a desert wasted.

Night Fishing in Grand Cayman

Specks of neon blue pulse like lightning on a conch shell, awakened by the strike of a hammer on its weakest spike. When I close my eyes, neon smears the canvas of my mind. Stars overhead twinkle with a magical intensity and paint a map that seafaring navigators have used since the dawn of time.

I wish I could read the sky, but all I can recognize is Orion and Ursa Major shining down on me. As a cost for all our progress, it’s obvious we’ve forgotten the language of the natural world. The knowledge of the runes lies sleeping beneath our skin, though—you can tell by the wonder one feels when looking up at a moonless sky.

“Stay close to me and do as I say. You are my eyes and ears. Keep watch for boats and let me know if you see any big shadows gliding through the water. If there’s a tiger shark nearby, I want to know about it.”

“Shit, I thought you were joking about the sharks. You’re not afraid to swim with them?”

“I’m going in, aren’t I? No worries, I’ve done this plenty of times. If any sharks do come, it’s just to see what we’re doing.”

As he sucked down his third spliff, I realized he must be feeling pretty good. He spoke giddily like a kid on christmas.

“Man, I haven’t been out fishing like this in a while! Perfect night for it.”

Personally, I wouldn’t want to be that baked while snorkeling in dark waters, but then again, I wasn’t born on an island. With that, he rolled off the side of the boat and grabbed the back corner with an outstretched arm.

“Okay, let’s go over there. Go slow so I can see.”

Turning the throttle just until it clicks into gear, I maneuver the boat towards the whitecaps that indicates where the reef is, dragging the fisherman along. Somewhere beyond, a gash in the ocean floor cuts more than four miles deep, but here the water is shallow—only about eight feet deep. We are mostly interested in the dark patches of rock in the moon-like sand, where lobsters congregate.

A mumble rises up from his snorkel telling me to stop. Then he’s gone, diving for prey. Thirty seconds later, his face pops out of the water and he’s holding two ornate conch shells. He drops them into the boat with a loud clank, then he’s gone again.

As his flashlight beam travels away from me, I kick the motor into gear and turn the boat to follow him. I’m not so good and I swing the boat in a big arc. Eventually, I catch up and he places more shells in the boat.

“Hand me the rod,” he says.

I hand him the lobster rod and he dives again to the moon-colored sand. My body is tense as my eyes dart from him to the horizon, where I’m supposed to watch for oncoming boats, all the while maintaining close contact to him in case of any trouble. The whole time, I’m worried about a shark sneaking through these dark and camouflaged waters.

When he surfaces again, a lobster is dancing on the end of his rod. I hold out the bag for him to drop the lobster in, but it misses and falls to the floor of the boat. Shit. I don’t have a light to see where it is, and I’m deathly afraid of reaching down and getting my hands pinched by the massive claws. So instead, I draw my legs up and surrender the floor to the lobster.

Eventually, I get the hang of the boat. I can swing it around in just a few seconds, knock it into reverse to follow him when he’s going against the current, and even anticipate where he’s going to go. He’s fast with those fins. It seems like growing up on an island makes you half-fish. I try to keep the boat at a crawl to keep the motor quiet, but sometimes the hum turns into a growl as I try to keep close.

After a couple hours of chasing this crazy fisherman through the shallows near the reef, he surfaces with a shout.

“Shit man! I’m looking around searching for fish, and all of a sudden a jack darts straight at me. Scared me half to death. Move over there,” he points to the opposite end of the boat.

By now there are four lobsters hanging out at the bottom of the boat and my feet haven’t touched the floor for an hour. Do you know how hard it is to steer a boat with your feet propped up? Lobsters and cramped legs aside, I clamber to the front of the boat so he can climb in. The boat is small enough we have to balance our weight to avoid tipping.

“Jack can’t do nothing to me. But I take it as a sign—ya know? Time to get outta the water. Who knows what be swimming up on me, next.”

Before we come back through the channel, he stops the boat and begins to clean out the conch. It is a very methodical procedure: bash one of the horns with a hammer (which sparks bioluminescence), free the foot, pull out the creature, then gut it. He throws the empty shell into the water to follow the intestines to the seabed. Thunk. Food for the fish in the sea, food for us in the bag. An equal exchange to keep the cycle going.

When he’s all finished, he shifts the boat back into gear and we head slowly back home. I don’t say so, but I’m glad to be relieved of my duties. My biggest fear of accidentally chopping him up with the motor blades has not come true. I may have lost a little sleep for this adventure, but the next day I got to try conch ceviche for the first time along with fresh-caught lobster. The boon was delicious.

When you look at the big timeline, it really wasn’t that long ago that humans had to hunt and forage for every meal. Now, we take food for granted. We buy everything from the store without thinking much about where it came from, how many hands it took to bring it there. There’s a great sense of accomplishment and connection involved in capturing your own meal that most of our race has long since forgotten.

Every day, the distance between us and our origins grows. We trade it for convenience, for laziness, for our more “important priorities.” Even now, nature is a shallow abstraction for many—it exists only as the trees in the suburbs, the manicured city parks, the urban coyotes stalking house cats. If we are not careful, there will be a day we lose touch with it entirely. I fear that day is not far off.

Photo Credit: Doug Chesser via Flickr

Ethereal Passage

Trees adorned in velvet shag

Sing with iridescent sunlight

As the sky calls forth a rain

 

Bellows rumble o’er all the land

Escaped from pregnant clouds

Delivering omens with a shaded hand

 

Sparks and fire singe the ozone

With a serpent’s purple tongue;

Electrons swarm me like angry bees

 

Free me from my gravity

Too much my soul to bear –

Wishes manifest as feathers

 

Take flight, my feather children

Color drab and diseased dreams;

Imbue the dreamers with life

 

Unbounded now by vessel

My intention tangents the horizon –

Arrow to the eye of the sun

 

Divine light of wisdom

Floods my forsaken soul

Absolves me of my waking sin

 

Essence exploding in a swirling mass

Paints the sky with supernova;

Cosmic epiphany at long last

 

Spark in the Dark

Something strange happened to me the other day. I was in the park writing and soaking up sun when a guy around my age, maybe a little younger, comes up to me and asks if he can sit down. I’m always open to meeting new people, so I say, sure take a seat.

We talked for a bit and then he lit a half-smoked spliff and offered me some. It was such a beautiful day and it’s always nice to get the creative juices flowing, so naturally I accept his offer. We shoot the shit for a while and begin to realize we look very similar. It’s not so much our faces, but our hair that is exactly the same–down to the color and curls. I rarely meet anyone with the same hair as me, so this is a little odd and the idea that he is an alternate me winds its way into my head. When the spliff’s gone, he leaves to go roll another one, saying he’ll be back in a bit. I get back to writing.

Moments later, a group of about seven boys and a woman approach me, surround me. I look up, startled, when a shadow crosses my notebook. The boys appear to be about middle-school age. One right beside me asks, can we give you some encouragement? Umm, okay, I say (who can deny that?).

He starts off saying that I’m a cup that God is flowing love into, and I often overflow and spread that love to others. Are these kids part of a religious group, I wonder? Then another picks up and says that I seem like someone with a lot of words to share, like I have a lot to say and want to help people. Now, perhaps these kids were oddly perceptive (I was out here writing), or maybe they were pulling some prophetic wisdom from the air…who’s to say?

They continue like that, one kid jumping in after another, giving me compliment after compliment – not superficial ones, either, but really great encouragement. My favorite one was that I am a spark in the dark, inspiring other sparks to become flames, and becoming a flame, myself, in the process.

Then, at the woman’s suggestion, they all point at me and say, dreams do come true, dreams do come true. And after the light stops flowing from their fingers and the aura around me dissipates, they are gone. They did a damn good job of encouraging me.

Not five minutes after they leave, my doppelganger comes back. He sits down, feeling accomplished with his new spliff. He has no idea what’s just happened. He sees the kids in the distance, though, so he lays off lighting his spliff.

The more we talk, the more obvious it becomes that this kid has no ambition. He works as a dishwasher and spends all his money on beer and weed. I’ve always been terrified of a life with no ambition. That’s why I’ve chosen to be a writer–a lifelong endeavor that gives me something to work at everyday, and to strive for a level of greatness I may never feel I achieve. Sometimes I lose sight of my dreams, and here in front of me was a perfect example of what I would be without those.

This time, when he lights his spliff and offers me some, I take just one courtesy toke and say, no more for me, thanks. I’ve got writing to do. He proceeds to get too stoned to talk.

This was a great reminder to me for how important encouragement is and how far compliments can go. We’re all just trying to live life and have a good time, and many of us have big dreams. So if you see someone down and out, why not pay them a compliment? Not a superficial one, but a real, heart-felt, genuine compliment. You know—the kind that strike a chord somewhere deep and send happiness vibrating throughout us and sometimes even outside of us. It helps to realize that most everyone has dreams, and sometimes simple words are enough to stoke the fire. After all, aren’t we all just sparks trying to be flames?

Photo Credit: Lee Coursey via Flickr