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"Virgin Goods," Virgin, Utah, 2004

A great uncaring environment

Drove back from the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument last night, drove the 200 miles from near Little Death Hollow (where we finally ran out of passable road), through so much uninhabited darkness, down and up the winding roads, past Bryce Canyon on highway 12, then across the mountains on highway 14. Dark night, hint of moon behind the clouds, deer and rabbits crossing the highway at first, and then just snowbanks beside us, the dark rush of pines nearby, the occasional radio station. Then static. Darkness.

In the daylight, the isolation is grand. In the dark, you travel a stretch of highway for 20 mins and do not see a soul, not a manmade light, and you wonder what would happen if the truck broke down, what would happen if . . .

On the drive back, Paula and I were way tired from too much sun, from the little lunch we took in the canyon heading down to the Escalante River: Ani the dog napping in the sun, Rudi napping in the wet sand, 65 degrees in the sun, 50 in the shade.

"Sometimes, I can't believe we are here, surrounded by all of this," I said earlier. We've had this conversation many times since arriving here last summer. The amazement at landing in this environment, at the ease of entry into these lands.

Paula nodded. "I know," she said, as though she'd heard this a few too many times. "It's been a vacation every since we got here." Ever since the move from Indiana to these mountains and canyons and valleys of Southern Utah.

I turned my head to feel the sun blasting down. Ravens soared 300 feet above us, along the cliffs. One of the dogs belched, wriggled, stopped moving.

But driving back, later, holding tight to the steering wheel, I try to be comfortable in so much heavy darkness. And it's difficult. Darkness means there's nothing there to rescue you. To save you or to help you. In the daylight, when I can see so far (to the Henry Mountains near Boulder, 60 miles away, and Navajo Mountain to the southeast) — this comforts and sustains me — allows for hope and optimism.

But in the darkness, surrounded by vague passing mountain-shapes and feeling the weariness of the day, I panic. My heart pounds and my hands sweat and I get worked up. "There should be a damned railing here!" I snap as we spin down another dark pass.

The natural beauty of Southern Utah, its vast unpopulated stretches, the canyons and mesas and petrified dunes and soaring cliffs and blazing deserts — all of it strengthens me in the daylight as I walk or jog the trails, as we explore this land in the harsh clear beauty of daylight.

But at night, driving lonely deep-night stretches, passing through a small collection of houses (a town?) and simply looking for a gas station that might be open or looking for a place to buy a damned Coke that might keep me awake for this long drive — this is the fear of isolation, the fear of being surrounded by nothing that cares about you, only rock and stone, and more rock and stone, and a few pines, and more rock and stone. A great uncaring environment.

In the end, I'll take it. Fear and uncertainty at night, optimism in the sun-blasted day. I'll take it. —3.05

Ten Thousand Villages

I've been hearing about this nonprofit program for a while now. According to their website: "Ten Thousand Villages provides vital, fair income to Third World people by marketing their handicrafts and telling their stories in North America. Ten Thousand Villages works with artisans who would otherwise be unemployed or underemployed, providing sustainable income through fair trade. This income helps pay for food, education, health care and housing. Thousands of volunteers in Canada and the United States work with Ten Thousand Villages in their home communities." I'd like to create an interactive story for the cause: tenthousandvillages.com. —4.05

Dyske

Dyske recently moved across my radar, and I'm intrigued: dyske.com. Excerpt: "Since 9-11, he [George Bush] has been experimenting with religious metaphors in political art. In the 80s, he became fascinated with evangelical Christianity, and began appropriating Born-Again Christianity as a conceptual kitsch in many of his works. The terror of 9-11 has further inspired him to make it the primary theme of his work, as we can see in his highly controversial piece, 'Faith-Based Initiative.' It vividly reminds us of the danger of religious fanaticism." —4.05