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Man Alone in the
Arizona Wilds
Tuesday May
16 1978
...It was of interest to observe that the banana yucca (baccata) were
making their annual and miraculous change from flower to fruit. The mass
of pendulous creamy-white blossoms on a stem (pollinated at night by the
pronuba moth in a highly-specialised symbiosis with the yucca, until
recently considered a member of the lily family) gives rise to the
popular name of Our Lord's Candle. here too grew an occasional agave
(century plant) sending up its caudex -- or central stalk -- after
gathering sufficient energy and sugars over a period of some ten to
thirty years. Once it has resolved to thrust forth its flower-stalk, it
sets in motion not only its long awaited moment of glory but its death
process. Having blossomed and seeded, it dies. How enlightened society
would become if its beings (all of us, that is) came to regard death as
the noblest moment of life. But didn't the Roman (and Greeks?) devote
their lives to the concept of dying "the good death?" (p. 8)
Caņon Escondido: Hidden Canyon
First Day
Danger is often associated with solitary hiking -- in fact, one is
advised never to go out into the desert alone. I am aware of the risks
involved (broken leg, snakebite, etc.), however, but choose to continue
hiking solo -- simply because total solitude (in the company of only God
and Mother Nature) is for me one of life's great joys. And so, for the
fourth year in a row, I found myself tramping off into the wilderness,
deliberately seeking out a remote and roadless area. (p. 69)
Fifth Day (Caņon Escondido: Hidden
Canyon)
Fear knocked at the door. Faith answered. No one was there.
These solitary expeditions do not make me afraid, for I hold the firm
belief that, by my being kind and caring into the desert, the desert
will in turn be kind and caring unto me. A practical person might scoff
at that intangible notion, but for me it is a matter of faith.
Nonetheless, when on a remote roamabout such as this, I am prey to
morbid thoughts now and then. One of my mind's demons will conjure up a
silly scenario in which, for example, i am savaged by a mountain lion.
(Ridiculous, for such an attack has yet to be documented, to my
knowledge.) Or poisoned by bad water at a spring. (A possibility but
unlikely in the wilds where man doesn't have access to pollute.) In
these passing moments of morbidity, I simply call on my faith in Nature
and in myself -- and drive off the demon who plays on susceptibility to
fears, primaeval and irrational. He comes and goes infrequently, and
each time it is faith that deals so effectively with him. (p. 81)
Third Day (Wednesday June 18 1983)
...Today I swung up a side canyon through which water was flowing. To
hike the upper desert, heat-stricken and waterless, was to invite
unnecessary risks, and I loved life too dearly for that. As I danced my
way up this tight arroyo, springing from rock to rock, I became aware of
how we learn the art of physical balance in the wilderness. No balance
is demanded of us in day-to-day life, for everywhere we go the way has
been evened out for us with asphalt or concrete. But here in the outback
(as the Aussies call it), nothing is truly flat and every step is an act
of balancing that becomes instinctive with experience. Nature also
teaches us what we do not learn in civilization: how to observe and be
sharply aware of what goes on around us. That is perhaps why usually
spot people I know before they spot me. In Aldous Huxley's imaginary
island (called Pala), the enlightened inhabitants trained mynah birds to
fly free and to cry, "Pay attention! Pay attention!" Some of
them called out, "Be here now, boys!" I thought of that as I
wandered along and caught myself mentally ahead in the future. It was a
never-ending discipline to live fully and vividly in the present. And
so, for the umpteenth time, I gently rebuked myself for that
future-tripping and said aloud, half in just, half in seriousness,
"If you're not being here now, you might not be there then."
(p. 96)
Wednesday July 18th 1990
The cheeky strident whistle of a curved-billed thrasher fetched me out
of sleep at first light I needed to be up early, tho'. I had an
ambitious exploration in mind for the morning. As I was making coffee,
the sun -- all a-dazzle -- cleared the rim of the great mesa to the
east. Each sunrise seems so triumphant, a daily and radiant affirmation
of the life-force. And I saluted Old Sol in the spirit of that thought.
Today I had to cross the river, still murky, and swift of current. The
first attempt failed. I got part way across but balked at the powerful
push of the water and the waist-depth of it. Barefoot, I didn't have a
strong grip on the bottom so I inched back to dry land. Went upstream a
hundred yards and found a shallower place to ford. This time I used a
stout stick which helped to shore me up against the down current. Made
it, with a cheer, to the other side. I'm not a strong swimmer so water
is my Achilles' heel. That'd be true irony -- drowning on a desert solo.
Once across, I followed the dry upper level of the riverbed, dodging now
and then thro' thickets of burrow brush till I came to a gulch that led
up to a hog's back ridge which separated the river as it made an
enormous oxbow bend. (p. 182)
Sunday, July 25 1990
Man passes away. Nature persists. (p. 197)
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