Into the Desert.

Let me start off by saying a few things:

First, today I got pulled over and I am NOT happy about it. It was my own stupid fault of course, but a mistake that I do not believe should cost $250. Tomorrow I'll go for my Oregon driver's license and pray that I pass the test the first time around. 

Second, Erin is officially out on spike and I have realized that I eat like a 15 year old boy left alone when she's gone. Cinnamon Toast Crunch is not a healthy dinner. (To my credit I mixed it with a little granola so I'd feel better about myself.)

Anyway, onto the good stuff. Since my photos wouldn't load, you'll need to check out my Facebook page to see them.

This past weekend, my coworker Jennifer invited me to travel with her to Mountain Home, Idaho, to pick up two of her sons from her brother's house. Charlie, her brother, owns a huge ranch and the boys were there helping him out for the summer. I usually would say no to something like that, being the control freak and homebody that I am, but I threw caution to the wind and agreed to come along. It was an 8 hour drive both ways, but the scenery on the way there was incredible. It constantly amazes me how diverse Oregon is when it comes to landscapes. There are huge mountains covered in wet coniferous forests in one part, then rolling sagebrush deserts in another part, then you have the coast and the valley, and everything in between. Deep lakes, raging rivers, the sea.

We headed out in the early morning, greeted by a number of raptors, including golden eagles and smaller accipiters that I couldn't identify. We talked for hours and stopped in the most random little podunk towns you could ever imagine. We discussed the differences between bigger towns and smaller towns, since we're both from one or the other. Jennifer explained to me that small towns are more self-managing (meaning that if you have a problem with someone, you take it right to them, not to an external authority), but that people also get away with a lot because the town is small and people are accustomed to each other's strange quirks. It gets swept under the carpet and unfortunately a lot of child molestation and incest never gets reported. But on the other side of that, the community is strong and the people support each other at all costs. In a big town, you don't have to tolerate any kind of abuse because the authorities have a greater outside power. But there's little community; if you have a community, they are usually spread out and separated from you by great distances. You don't speak to your neighbors and you don't watch out for each other. 

We drove through a miniscule town called Unity, Oregon. We went into a bar to use the restroom, and there were dollar bills with names (and other things) written on them, stapled on the ceiling and walls. Jennifer smiled and handed me a dollar bill, so I wrote my name and Joan's name on it and handed it back to the lady. Then I used a pointy post it note to locate Baltimore on a big US map tacked to the wall. 

Over mountain passes we prayed to see elk and bears, but to no avail. We discussed creationism; Jennifer is a firm believer and I pelted her with questions from my little archaeologist's brain. Just as science is an interesting theory, so to is creationism. I can't say I could really draw myself to believe in the tenets of creationism, but I think, really, vehemently defending one side or the other is really missing the point (and a huge waste of energy). She's in love with geology and contends that things happened a lot more quickly than scientists suppose (think hundreds or thousands versus millions and billions). We talked a lot about Christianity, but fortunately for me she's one of those people that can talk about it without trying to convert you. (I could tell she wanted to, but she restrained herself.) I'm always up for a good spiritual debate anyhow, and since picking up this path, I've never been more satisfied with my spiritual ways. Christianity just isn't for everyone - although Christians feel it's their right to make sure everyone knows that Jesus is the only way to Heaven, a habit I find somewhat tiresome but better understood after having Jennifer explain to me that if you believed you had the absolute truth and you saw people walking off cliffs, you'd want to give them the truth that could save them too. I prefer to let people come to me if they so choose, but everyone is different.

Once in Idaho, I could not believe what, and excuse my terrible lack of respect for the earth, a complete wasteland it appeared to be. In the blazing heat, there was only vast stretches of yellow with patches of green-grey sagebrush. No trees for shade, no boulders for shade, just low rocks that will break your ankles and hundreds of miles of emptiness.

We passed an exit sign on the interstate that said, "US Ecology Idaho Waste Site." It made me sad, but made me physically roll my eyes when we passed another roadside sign that claimed, "Idaho is too beautiful to litter." So.. nuclear waste is not what we're considering 'litter'? On the way home we passed a dump site for the government - all you could see for miles were huge mounds of earth, placed symmetrically apart across a vast expanse. I rolled up my window and shuddered at the thought of what lay beneath the ground out there - trickling into our water, poisoning the sand, delivering cancer bit by bit to the unfortunate humans that lived nearby. And the lies that accompany such activities by our government.

We arrived at Charlie's and the house was gloriously air-conditioned. I was instructed not to play with the five dogs, who can take commands like, "Left" and "Stay" as though they were human. These five dogs could single handedly wrangle a herd of cattle, just by Charlie's words. Charlie himself was an unimposing man, tall with the prerequisite mustache, two bouncing children and a do-it-all wife. He smiled occasionally and laughed more often than I was expecting him to, and referred to his nephews as worms and numbnuts. 

Charlie loaded us up in his truck, dogs in the back, and we drove through this painful desert to arrive at some paddocks where horses eyed us in that way that horses do; unsure, easily swayed by the scent of food. We brushed them and loaded them with saddles. The first saddle's stirrups were too long for me (surprised?) so I was switched to a slightly smaller saddle and I immediately remembered how much I loved being on a horse. This horse, Levi, ended up being quite a pill, but most horses are the first time you're on them. They're smart enough to know that they can push you and test you, and only with a fair bit of confidence and grit will you tame them. This is what I love about horses - they have spirits of pure fire. There is a legend that they came from the sea under Poseidon's command, and Native Americans contended that they were creatures of the thunderstorms. This makes the horse all elements of existence - air (thunderstorms and wind), water (their watery origins, water also being associated with the earth), and fire (their ferocity, power, intelligence, seductive nature). It isn't a wonder to me that they have always been creatures of great respect across all nations. It hurts me to think of how horses are broken and tamed, but I will not pretend that I don't one day want one for my very own. 

So, loaded on horseback, we set off across the desert, tiptoeing through jagged volcanic rock and shielding our eyes from the overpowering light of the evening sun. The cows on the land were there in part because Charlie sells them for their meat, but also because the environmentalists and ranchers were working out a system of rehabilitating the land (overgrazing, of course, does terrible things to the land and cows are notorious for being un-picky eaters, whereas buffalo, for example, will actually encourage natural health by picking and choosing which grasses they eat and when they eat them). We had to move the cattle from one area to another to reduce the amount of grazing they were doing in the first area. Being from a city of a million, I had no idea how feisty cows were - they brayed at the top of their lungs, glared daggers at us, and charged the dogs that tried to corral them. We didn't harass the cattle, just closed in on them slowly and surely so they'd do the moving on their own. We crossed streams, went up the steepest hillsides I've ever seen, and my damned horse tried twice to hang me up in a tree (meaning he walked about as close as he could to the trunk and tried to leave me in the branches). Horses do this intentionally, to test you. I have to admit the second time he really scared the shit out of me - we were on a terribly steep incline and he picked up speed as he went down, bouncing me around in the saddle when I was already leaning as far back as I could without falling off. He happened to pick up this speed right as he crashed me through the boughs and headed into the water. Bastard horse. 

At any rate, I had a blast. We returned to the house and de-saddled the horses, and Henry (Charlie's boy) showed me the best plum tree in the yard, full of tiny purple fruits a bit smaller than ping pong balls. The first bite was sweet like candy, and then tart as hell, making your lips pucker up. We went into the house and gorged ourselves on delicious foods, reveled in the feeling of clean, hot water coursing over our filthy bodies, and slept hard as rocks. Yes, the more I am exposed, the more I know what my life will one day look and feel like.

On the way home, we passed through towns bearing 110 degree weather - we had no air conditioning and even with the windows down going 75 miles an hour, it felt like hot sand being blasted onto our skin without the scratch of particles. It was like driving through a furnace, unforgiving and without shade. I have realized, being in the desert, how the body aches for water and not just when you are dehydrated. It's a deeper, primeval feeling, not only that you want to drink it but that you want to immerse yourself in it, bring it up over your head and face and bless yourself with its life-giving powers. It's so beautiful that you just want to praise it, thank it, take it with you. Your 75% water responds to its flow, its movement, the coolness it exudes in the air that could easily, literally cook you were you not careful.

We stopped in Pendleton and broke into her parents' home since they were not there, ate their grapes and green beans from the garden, drank their tea, marveled at their beautiful home, and were on our way again. We approached Madras at dusk, with the fire of the sunset bursting through heavy leaden storm clouds that, in the distance, emitted enormous lightening bolts that danced from cloud to cloud or exploded upon the earth's surface. 

As I prepare for my second night alone and without contact from my lover, I find myself hoping that the storms have been careful with her and her crew; that they will give them work to do but steer around them and keep them safe. Whenever she leaves for a fire, I feel as much anxiety as a mother must when her only child leaves for the world on their own; I always cry and tell her a thousand times how much I love her. I do this because I will not hear her voice or any word of her safety or unsafety for 14 straight days, and the worry I contend with would overwhelm me if I let it. Firefighting is not an un-dangerous profession but it is the one she has chosen. 

So I imagine white light around her, see her laughing face behind my closed eyelids, and wrap my arms around her pillow so I can bury my face in her scent.