Out of Touch

A hanging garden on the canyon wall. Maidenhair ferns and Columbine. The pool at the bottom of the seep was ephemeral, but I collected enough water to make dinner and a cup of tea; later, ready to sleep, I rolled out my pad in a place where I had removed the rocks and looked at the amazing western sky. All of the stars. Turns out it's not a good idea to camp next to the only water supply for several square miles. It gets frisky. The next morning, after a breakfast of gruel, I look for a better sleeping spot because I know I'll be back. Found a ledge, with an overhang, a hundred yards away, and raked out the small mammal bones and rocks. Built a fire pit, then collected fire wood for the next time. Over the course of that summer and fall (I was building a house in Moab) I spent many weekends there. If I hiked in after work on Friday, I'd have three nights and two full days to explore, and be alone. When I got to work on Monday, not uncommon in Moab, I looked like I'd been dragged through mud-puddles; after work, I'd get a motel room, clean-up and shave, have a great meal at any one of several good restaurants. The entertainment part of the evening would be stopping by the sports bar to watch the German and Japanese tourists line-dancing in their newly purchased dusters, with boots, hats, and sometimes, spurs. Hard rain and the power goes out, it's so dark I can't see my hands. I hoped I'd saved the Utah story, which was merely a product of seeing some vividly green ferns growing out of the driveway bank. The memory is so striking because that spot, eight feet high and twelve feet wide, was at such odds with the environment. One of those indelible images. I set a high bar for what is beautiful.