Coming, Going and Being Home: Nevada to California

Elkhorn Slough

"I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them have never happened." ---Mark Twain

Perhaps it is in our nature to look forward, our Cro-Magnon brains ever peering down the path ahead for danger. To be unready is to risk death. For me, in this modern world of a thousand distractions and pointless obligations, this processing of the endless "what ifs" that may lie ahead can be an often relentless intrusion into my quest for peace.  To be clear (and perhaps you understand this by now), I don't mean planning for the future in a way that is practical, but rather dwelling in the make-believe world of where I am heading (or where I've been, for that matter) at the expense of my appreciation of where I am standing. James Herriot tells a story of worrying for weeks about being bitten by an aggressive dog he needs to treat. The dog eventually does bite him but he concludes that the bite itself was far less of a bother than the weeks spent anticipating it. I fear I've squandered too much time anticipating such elusive phantoms of the future. I sometimes look for causation (translation: blame) in the rocky relationship history of my adult life: so many years of self-reliance I can find no rest from the job of survival and, in fact, may have forgotten the peace of relinquishing the duty even when offered a helping hand. There is a battle for dominance going on between my introverted abstract side and my extroverted analytical side and I'm hoping for a truce.

The ability to plan and organize the future lies solidly in our left brain, while our creative, expansive, abstract thinking right brain recognizes our wholeness with our environment. When I understand myself in the context of my separate brain hemispheres so much makes sense. Born and raised in a right brain nurturing household, since taking the path of science 15 years ago, my left brain has ruled the day. I love my curious, skeptical, problem-solving left brain, but it might be time for a bit of quiet from the left so the right can just BE, and I may go about my day in stupid bliss.

All of this is heightened for me because a road trip can become consumed by the planning of tomorrow. Someday, when Harry and I travel again on the highways, I will hope to think nothing of tomorrow, only today and how the breath of a horse feels on my cheek.

Lisa and Chocolate Chip

Going home

Eden was my home and haven for a month. There I was able to rest, take a break from driving and wait for the financial crisis that had truncated my travels to stabilize. Since Lisa had retired from her soul-sucking job (sorry Lisa, too much?), we could use this time to work on projects together including hunting for a new trailer (to replace the loaner, TARDIS, posts 1-3). Since leaving my big Seabright neighborhood house in Santa Cruz in 2008, I have been steadily condensing the size of my living space. At first that choice was involuntary, but now it has become a cause and a passion with living comfortably below my means in California the end game. Willow Wildwood, a 24-foot travel trailer, is my first step toward making that a reality, and will provide me with a starting place for a more permanent tiny home. We named her Willow, in honor of one of my favorite trees and TV characters, and Wildwood after the type of trailer and, happily, the home woods from Wind in the Willows.

Lisa and Harry work on our book shelves. That's Willow in the
back to the left and jealous Pagoo to the right.

Bedroom shelf complete with quilt rack. Never mess
with a woman with a power drill.

Lisa (the master of power tools) and I (the master of all things crooked) work together to customize Willow a bit before she moves to California. Using salvaged barn wood, we create shelves to house all my rocks, beachcombing finds and field guides. In the evenings, Lisa, Dave and I, plus however many pack members will fit, sit back inside the trailer with beers in hand and assess the day's handy work. Dave is mystified by the book shelves, but works on fixing some of the dozens of little broken things one finds while sitting in a used trailer drinking beer.

The beagles approve of Willow

As we attended to Willow, the concurrent challenge of finding a California home for her began. This turned out to be much harder than I had anticipated. I was to find that I am not the only person in California trying to make this plan a reality. I created a perky Craigslist ad that I though would surely be irresistible to the land owner with space to spare. Who wouldn't want to rent a tiny plot of ground to a marine biologist/ blog writer and a charming beagle? But after posting such a theoretically irresistible ad I found that there were 10 other ads very much like it, all looking for a place to park their RV in central California. Aye, me. With the freezing temperatures and snowed in passes of winter approaching, I had to make it to California soon, or hunker down and winter in Nevada.

So here we are back at the brain hemispheres: I really struggled during this time between the misery of getting my logistics in order, the shame of viewing myself as a failure for not having my shit together at the age of 52, and the peace that went with simply taking notice of where I was in space and time. We have a choice about nearly everything we do and feel, but sometimes it's hard to see that. I won't deny that there is an ongoing tug-of-war, but I have declared my choice to be on the side of noticing that I am home, wherever I might be. And this is how the take-home message from Nevada became not one of struggle over money or the baggage carried by my ego, but rather the gift of time with my sister in a place that nurtured my naturalist soul.

"You have chosen....wisely."---the Grail Knight, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

My last day in Eden was bittersweet. Having talked about it for a month, I finally jumped on the back of my equine boyfriend, Willie, for a bareback ride around the property. Harry was mystified by this novel use what he thought merely a provider of poop snacks, but I was in love. 

Gena, Willie and Harry ride the range

There was a measure of transcendence in seeing the valley from this new perspective. It felt like this perch on the back of a horse was simply the essential vantage point from which to see the high desert.

The view from Willie

I want to just keep riding. If I stay here atop Willie, this feeling will last forever and I won't have to say good-bye. A few days prior, I made the decision to depart, scouting ahead of Willow in hopes of finding one of my living options agreeable before she makes the journey over the Sierras. With Pagoo packed and buckled up and Harry back in his co-pilot's seat, we are off. Lisa is holding the gate for me, waving. We are both sad. The tail-wagging entourage follows and stops, still wagging, at the boundary. Our pilgrimage back to California has begun.

Coming home

Just ten miles away from Eden, as we round a bend on the 40-mile Gabbs-Poleline Road, a rush and stomp of hooves kicks up dust across the unpaved road in front of Pagoo. It is not cattle, but my friends the pronghorn sending us off. A big buck stops and stands, giving us a look over his shoulder and powder-puff rump before following his ladies over the hill. For Harry and me, there couldn't be a more appropriate gesture from the Great Basin wilderness.

"Eat my powder puff!"

We make our first day back on the road an easy one, driving the 120 miles to Fallon for groceries and heading to make camp for the night, to the once epic Lake Lahontan. At its peak over 12,000 years ago, its surface spanned more than 22,000 square kilometers making it one of North America's largest lakes. What remains now is comparatively a pond, held at 40 square kilometers by the Lahontan Dam. We find plenty of deserted shoreline on which to camp where we please and even have enough time for dinner al fresco and a walk (carefully avoiding the wicked burrs) before retiring to the songs of coyotes at the lake shore. Our first steps out in morning reveal a camp completely embossed by coyote tracks. Their investigation of us was done in complete silence to both human and beagle ears. We slept peacefully, but not alone.

Pagoo at Lake Lahontan camp. The rusty edge of the distant lake shore
can be seen to the left.

Why must there always be stickers?

I was concerned how Emmy would fare toting 1,500 pounds of Pagoo on I-80 over Donner Pass, but she never hesitated and we maintained our cruising speed of 60 mph for the crossing. Near the summit, as we pass Truckee and approach Donner Lake, we stop to pay our respects at the memorial to the infamous settler party for which the lake and pass are named. The story is heartbreaking and astounding---I won't recount it here, but if you are not familiar I suggest Desperate Passage by Ethan Rarick for an updated account of the ordeal. Two things have always stood out for me from this story: Most of the survivors were women and children and many of those who walked out across the Sierras during a record snow, did so wearing little more than rags on their bodies and feet. I don't think many alive today could claim such fortitude. Here is the story of one of those children:

Donner Party survivor, the 8-year old Patty Reed

Some of the belongings she had with her during the ordeal

As I stand at the memorial, the traffic of I-80 buzzes by within eyesight and earshot of the spot where so many found themselves so desperately stranded. I feel their ghosts around me keenly and wonder if they've stood watch as the passage that proved so unassailable then was transformed by wagon, railroad and truck to the asphalt freeway it is today. It would take me less than two hours to cross the Sierras from Nevada into California at 60 mph.

Descending into familiarity, Emmy seems guided by a mechanical memory of the road. Up over the Santa Cruz Mountains on highway 17 and into the town of Aptos where we would spend the next week with former husband (and current friend) Scott and his partner Robin. Harry, ever the gracious guest, manages to be sprayed by a skunk within an hour of our arrival, but Scott and Robin are unphased and offer a welcoming home base for my task of finding a home for Willow. Early the next morning, I take Harry on the short walk to the cliff above Rio Del Mar. The skunk debacle of the evening before had delayed this last tiny leg of our journey. I quickly send a photo to both sisters: I have arrived!

Reunion at Rio Del Mar

Being Home

The next two weeks would find me on a roller coaster of emotion as I scouted locations in the remote hills of La Honda and the redwoods of Felton. Situations that at first seemed ideal fell apart. Lisa and Dave waited on standby for the news that Willow had a California home. Finally, the whirlpool of uncertainty and frustration circled us gently to safe haven (and a working sewer hook up) on the land of friend and colleague, Jack and his family above the upper fingers of the Elkhorn Slough. I would be among friends (and goats).

As Lisa and Dave readied Willow for her journey in my footsteps, I reacquainted myself with all my favorite Monterey Bay places (it had been two years since I left Santa Cruz county for work in San Luis Obispo). Harry and I eagerly visited friends, took long walks on familiar beaches and dined at our favorite restaurants. I was giddy as I waited on the patio of Charlie Hong Kong for my Pad Thai to pop out of the take out window. I rushed to Santa Cruz's Bagelry for my bagel fix and a dozen day olds for the freezer. Even after a trip across the country, still the best bagels. I watched an otter eat her version of fast food: mussels off the dock pilings in Moss Landing. 

Gena's breakfast courtesy Zachary's of Santa Cruz

Sea otter's breakfast courtesy Mytilus of Moss Landing

Absence had made my heart grow fonder, but the reality of Santa Cruz's dirty secret had dimmed. If you live here you know what I mean: TRAFFIC. It may be a small city but it's commuting population of silicon valley professionals and UC students combined with highway 1 bottlenecks make for a dreary drive getting in and out of town. My friend Lilian has gotten Santa Cruz living right---set yourself in a house near downtown and avoid driving anywhere. I'm working on getting my trailer to wedge into her back yard.

On November 15, after my last night in Pagoo, my road trip comes to an end as my heroes Dave and Lisa pull up to the gate outside Jack's place towing Willow Wildwood. Dave backs her into her stall like a pro (well, he is a pro, actually), and with Jack's help, we plug in, attach hoses, jack up and set her level. The next morning, I wake up early but Dave and Lisa have already gone, on the road back to Eden. All that I have carried since leaving Rancho Marino on August 15 lies in one small pile on the dining table, making Willow seem like a palace. It's time to rebuild my world in California and I will, true to form, fret over what the future holds. But this morning I can let my right brain have the floor and so notice the crunch of oak leaves beneath my feet, hear the call of the red-shouldered hawk and the jay's mocking reply, see Harry running with his new dog neighbors, and feel the hum of family in the air. I can savor being home.

Left to right: Terra, Bob, Bonnie, Katie, Ruby and Jack with new family member, Harry and new lawn ornament, Willow Wildwood. 

"Harry, we're home."

Love Letter to the Great Basin: Nevada, Part 3

The drama of the Great Basin

What many know of North America's Great Basin, is that which they've seen driving from Las Vegas, or one of the other Basin cities (Reno, Salt Lake City) to wherever else it is they want to be. The sagebrush dominated high desert valleys crisscrossed by long, straight highways, are but one of the diverse communities created by this landlocked "super basin". Bounded primarily in the west by the Sierra Nevadas and the east by the Wasatch Range, rain that falls here will never find its way to the sea but seeps into ancient drains the shores of which have waxed and waned over millions of years. In case you don't know, I love this place.

The Great Basin

Grimes Point, near Fallon, provides some insight into the geological and archaeological history of the region. When I first visited the spot, my ocean going self wondered how this place in the desert could be called a "point". But in the distance are the visible lines of the shores of Lake Lahontan from 12,000 ago, and at my feet are the petroglyphs of people, who stood where I stand, then legitimately a point after 4,000 more years of the Lake's diminishing. 

A stopover at Grimes Point offers a look at
ancient shorelines.

Standing on this spot 12,000 years ago, I would have
had 400 feet of Lake Lahontan above my head.

I imagine the artist crouching behind this rock, waiting for a herd of pronghorn to come into range, suddenly seeing the dark surface as a scratchboard canvas.

8,000 year old selfie?

And I can find kinship with these people in that I, too, am often scanning the valley for pronghorn. 

The only hazard predicted by this sign is that I will nearly
drive off the road in excitement when I see it.

What would a representative our unique, endemic and prehistoric artiodactylid, the pronghorn say were it able to speak? "Don't call me antelope!" Despite being commonly referred to as such, the pronghorn is (much more interestingly, I reckon) in a family by itself, the last living representative of North America's 12 antilopcaprid species of the Pleistocene. I find them bizarre and worthy of jaw-dropping awe. When watching them run, I feel as if I've stepped into a time machine.

And from that time-traveling vantage point, I might see them pursued by the predator that may have driven the evolution of their record breaking speed: the American cheetah. I had no idea this cat of debated phylogeny (cougar or Old World cheetah?) existed until reading up on my pronghorn prehistory. What doesn't kill you makes you faster....

Pleistocene predator of the pronghorn, Miracinonyx trumani,
the American cheetah.

And the final word on pronghorns comes from Harry. This video is from a previous visit to the Basin in a warmer greener time. The first is Harry's first sight ever of these "glorified COWS" and the second his audible response (his beagle bay, rendered hoarse by the cutting of his vocal cords in the research lab of his youth), beneath our giggles. Also, running pronghorn.

The sagebrush community of the Great Basin valleys has its charms, but what I find the most thrilling are the mountain oases scattered throughout. Nevada is the most mountainous state in the US and each range has its own assemblage of wildlife, rendered unique as an island in a sea of desert. Looking up from the valley, the mountains look stark and dry, but as you wind your way up the canyons, a miracle of transformation occurs. I say miracle because, even now as I write of it, the memory of the unexpected wave of richness gives me goosebumps. Up every canyon road waits a hidden world.

At the entrance to Peavine Canyon---snow awaits.

A drive up into Peavine Canyon leads from the cold but dry desert, past the ruins of settler's cabins,  through the cottonwoods and willows of the riparian zone into a snowy wonderland. At first we pass tiny snow patches and a sugar-dusting of crystals but, as we ascend to the pinyon pine forest of the higher elevations we find abundant, virgin snow.

Peavine settlement circa 1890s. It seems a cold and lonely place to
live in winter, but this canyon is verdant after the thaw.

Harry, a California dog, finds leaping the best way to
navigate in snow.

My mom always liked a flocked Christmas tree---you know, the ones with the sprayed on plastic snow? Even now that I find them offensive, the smell of the flocking evokes memories of mom. She would have them custom flocked to her specifications: "Make it look like a tree blanketed in freshly fallen snow," she would tell the nurseryman. I think this is the look she was going for:

Pinyon pine in snow

Snow crystal decoration

Heading up Jet Canyon near Round Mountain, lead into woods of a very different color. Here it was shimmering river of fall gold. At times the branches closed in around the Jeep like the tube of a breaking wave. Lisa had previously explored this route on a Razor, but had confidence in the ability of the Jeep. "Are we driving in a creek bed now?!" I asked incredulously. "I think so, yeah." she says, nonplussed. The pack tumbles out to investigate a banquet of intriguing smells.

Lisa and the pack in the creek bed of Jet Canyon

The gathering of gold cottonwood leaves worthy of
Andy Goldsworthy.

I'm sure the Great Basin presented many challenges both those hoping to stay and those just wanting to get across on their way to California, but some homesteaders seem to have chosen wisely. While it is now abandoned but for the occasional cattle round up, Cloverdale Ranch seems perched in the perfect valley. I can't imagine what hardship motivated the residents to abandon such a place. While washed in autumn colors now, a river of green come springtime.

Cabin at Cloverdale waits for the return of its people

Looking out of the barn door at Cloverdale

Post and beam in the barn

Former residence now occupied only by barn owls and their prey

An ingeniously carved seat from which to
admire the view of the valley. Who else sat here, I wonder?

Finally I am going to cheat the seasons just a bit and and give you a peak at late spring wildflowers from my visit in June of 2012, when Lisa, the hounds and I ventured up into the Shoshone Mountain Range to the Berlin-Ichthyosaur State Park. If you find yourself traveling across the Nevada and come upon a sign like this:

The real ghost town of Berlin, an abandoned mining town

Go. Just go. It is one of my favorite places in Nevada. It has an authentic ghost town (Berlin), and an extraordinary fossil deposit (Ichthyosaur), some of the Basin's finest spring wildflowers, pinyon pine forest, a view of the valley and a nice campground. Trust me. Go.

The fossils of 40 ichthyosaurs have been found in the park in
deposits similar to this one, a pile up of fish-like reptiles that met
a simultaneous, catastrophic death.

Prickly poppy, Argemone

Western pine elfin (Callophrys eryphon) on Prince's plume (Stanleya pinnata)
at Berlin-Ichthyosaur in spring.

As I ready to depart Eden and our Great Basin adventures, my heart is breaking a bit. It's easy to love Yellowstone and the warm beaches of the Outer Banks. Open your eyes just a bit wider and ready your aperture to slide in a blink from the grand landscapes to the detail of the smallest features, and you will love this place as I do. Just look.

Valley view from one of the Great Basin's mountain range islands of diversity

The Rocks and the Hounds: Nevada, Part 2

The rock hounds: Harry and Marley

Do you hear the rocks singing? You've heard of whisperers to dogs and horses, who not only speak those tongues, but listen---my sisters and brothers and I hear the songs of the rock and stone. I don't know if I understand why but each of us has some affinity for the children of the earth, the bits cast off, eroded, wave polished or mined from ancient veins. They talk to us, ask to be picked up, admired and chosen, tell us where they'd like to be placed to merge into a growing rock wall, and they sing with the memory of places visited. If you visit any of the homes of the Krantz sisters, you will find many displays much like this:

One of many stone displays in Gena's house

alters to nature, this one appointed uniquely Gena by the marine theme. Rebecca's would be of the woods (although she has collections of rocks from all over, gifted to her by traveling friends) and Lisa is, of course, our desert sister. My brother, Richard, designs great stone houses, agonizing over each stone from its quarry to the integrity of its placement. Steven treasures the witness rocks of the great historic places---they hold the secrets of  battles from the glory of victory to the loneliest death. When I hold a rock I can feel the pulse of the earth from a time before we can even imagine, beating within. They are not dead, no.

The hunt for any treasure you might like to find in Nevada (other than from a slot machine) is likely to take you down bumpy, unpaved roads to remote places, destinations better attained on one of the ancestors to the wild burros that haunt the sagebrush around the old mines.  A borrowed guide to rock hounding in Nevada and a highway stretching out beyond the vanishing point is our source of inspiration.

Feral burros no longer serve man outside of Goldfield, NV

Gabbs-Poleline Road: sandstone fossils

Lisa and I test out out rock hunting skills on a mound of slippery sandstone scree in the shadow of the solar reserve, just 20 minutes from our home base at Eden. Finding the location based on directions in our guide, is easy. What we realize for the first time on this, our most remedial of excursions, is that we have no idea what we are looking for. The rocks may speak to us, you see, but we are amateurs when it comes to the science of geology and even the skills of rock hounding, and our search for the fossils promised in the guide seems like the proverbial hunt for a needle in a haystack. And we don't know what a needle looks like.

The Crescent Dunes solar reserve is not yet fully operational.
It looms with a bizarrely futuristic presence in the desert.

Several hours of searching produced a few likely fossils, probably seeds of some kind, although a close look reveals segments which I like to think nudges them at least in the direction of animal kingdom. I really want them to be ancient worms, suffocated in a desiccating mud puddle of long ago.

Organismal ghosts in the sandstone

Lisa and our vehicle of exploration, the stalwart red Jeep
near Gabbs-Poleline Road

We were unsure, on this, our first excursion, how two beagles would fair as partners and companions. Marley, Lisa's rescued beagle is fond of self guided walks in search of rabbits, and Harry can become impatient with walks that circle around and around, not necessarily ever reaching the next bend of the trail. As it turned out, they were both stellar rock hounding companions, with Marley keeping his mind and attention on task, and Harry, as always, keeping a sharp eye on his mom. 

Harry keeps tabs

As always, there were other treasures among the stones.
Pygmy blue butterfly

Crow Springs: Apache Tears

There is an Apache legend that says that after their warriors were pursued over a cliff by the Calvary in the 1870s, the wives and mothers of the tribe cried, their tears turning to black stones as they hit the ground: Apache tears. Crystal lore says to hold one in your pocket will protect you are heal you from sorrow. You will not cry---the Apache women have cried all the tears for you. If water meets an obsidian lava flow, the obsidian may foam and crack into perlite. If the core remains untouched and nests smooth and dark, it becomes an obsidian nodule or Apache tear. We know as we approach the inactive Crow Springs perlite mine, that we are hunting for its debris---Apache tears---and while our guidebook has hinted at great piles, we are unprepared for the mountains of tailings (the debris of mining) that are great mounds of black nodules. They cover the ground like glossy black tile. The dilemma switches away from finding and into choosing.

The view from Crow Springs mine. The black mound next to the
old mine shaft entrance is entirely Apache tears.

Everywhere the ground is glossy black

Imagine the great reaction as obsidian lava met water
in a combination that turned liquid glass into foamy perlite.

Lisa, the hounds and I spread out, wandering the paths between the mine shafts, among the great shiny black mounds, heads bent for treasures of the human or canine predilection. Our approaches are opposite: I am filling my bag with handfuls of nodular treasure and Lisa, so overwhelmed by the abundance, picks up nothing until we are loading back into the jeep. Harry, who has grown attached to the near genetic duplicate of me my sister provides, is perplexed as we separate---who to follow? Clearly distressed, he runs back to check on Lisa as she moves out of view, finally lying down in a spot in the middle from which he can keep an eye on us both. Marley, the more independent beagle, is content to accompany whomever is taking the most interesting path.

Goldfield: Ghosts, Graves and Jasper

I've written before of my love of ghosts and haunted places. Our way to the next rock hunting site takes us near Goldfield, an almost ghost town that boomed in the first decades of 1900 and, by the time it was nearly destroyed by fire in 1923, was already well on its way to bust. The once grand Goldfield Hotel survived the fire and is now rumored to be deliciously haunted. It is currently abandoned and in need of restoration, apparently a few have tried and failed to bring it to its former glory. Its "sister" hotel, the Mitzpah in Tonopah, was designed by the same architect and has been fully restored. Anyone have $10-20 million to restore a haunted hotel?

It stands much as it did when it was completed in 1908

There are sister ghosts in there!

Goldfield has many historic places to visit, including this shack built with bottles. It caught my eye not just because I am an avid collector of vintage bottles, but because my nephew Sky is currently stockpiling bottles with a project like this in mind. I like the idea, particularly when the bottles provide tiny, round colored portals between inside and out.

The Goldfield Cemetery bears the graves of many who came to untimely ends. The epitaphs were simple and to the point in those days, it seems many men were shot to death during the gold boom years. Seems a lonely final resting place.

Sacred Hear Cemetery in Goldfield

Many of the headstones have been restored to preserve
the writing.

Ever the rock hunter, Lisa eyes some nice rocks and glass on one
particular grave site. No, we would not be grave robbers.

In the hills just outside of Goldfield we find, not gold, but the massive vein of jasper that was our next rock hunting destination. This great vein of blood red and ochre pushes up to the surface here and erodes and flakes into candy-striped rivers of sharp-edged scree. The prizes are bull's-eyes and turkey tails and peppermints with a gold dusting of pyrite and each footstep carries the sound of wind chimes as the stones clink together. There are rumors of petrified wood but they are lost in the sea of ox blood. On this, our third rock hunting excursion, Harry begins to tire of the slow pace and sits down with an exasperated sigh and a stare when I linger too long at one spot. Why we don't follow the burro trails to the end is a mystery to him.

Bachelor burro and Joshua tree form a perfect Old West tableau

Jasper flakes

Dyer: Moonscape

For this excursion in search of the elusive petrified wood, Lisa left directions to our destination on a post-it at home for my brother-in-law, Dave, in the event that we don't come home. As an extra precaution as we surveyed the crumbly dry wash we were intending to ascend, she called and took on one of the cell phone's most treacherous scenarios: the transmission of important safety information over a bad connection. I think Dave may have understood where we were by the end of the call, but I'm glad we didn't have to find out. The skies were clear blue with no flash floods likely to revoke the dry status of our route, and our handbook promised great stumps of petrified trees at its end. So we bumped up the wash and into another planet.

Dyer sandstone towers

Sandstone towers, topped with hard stone caps, have been worn into spiraling figures by thousands of years of waxing and waning flood waters. We drive and then walk once the walls narrow, the hounds are only too happy to make the trip with noses to the ground. We are seeking the stumps of a long ago forest that are rumored to crown some of these mounds at the head of the wash. Colored rocks are scattered across the sandy floor and sprouting from some of the more worn bumps, but we never really find anything as mythical as an ancient forest.  When I search for pictures later to help with my search image, I find sites like this selling forests of trunks and I wonder how many have come hunting and pillaging before us. There are so many humans, wanting so much, it is no longer reasonable to believe that our own small footprint, even if it is mindful, does no damage to the world. I am no angel, I have my boxes of rocks that almost certainly would have been more usefully left where I found them. And yet that need to covet that which we find beautiful is fundamental. What evolutionary need does that fulfill I wonder?

Dyer finds collected in a rusty old ham tin---stolen treasure?

Harry and Marley lead the way

Finding no great trunks at the head of the wash, we break off to explore some of the interesting formations, dug deep by floodwaters. There are times when my heart swells with emotion to look ahead, or back to see my companion in adventure. He is nearly always game to see what lies beyond, asking only for an occasional boost up the steeper steps.

The payoff is a beautiful view down the wash into the Basin where the wind is churning the dust into a desert fog. I think one of the compelling reasons for bringing that pocketful of stones home, is that they will sing to me the memory of such a place.

View from above the Dyer arroyo

.