In Defense of Wilderness, or "#OurWild"

I am currently strapped into a cushy chair having blood drained from my arm. Because I'm a hero. At least that's what the poster next to me says. Anyway, I want to talk about something that is really important to me. I tend to write mostly about adventure, the outdoors and nature. I would be a very different person without these things in my life. In order to have adventure, to experience nature and the outdoors, we need places to go. There is so much privately owned land already in the United States. In my home state, Nebraska, the nearest "wilderness" area was hours from my home. Here in the Southwest, it's minutes and I love it. Unfortunately, that is in danger. For sometime now, special interest groups have been lobbying for the removal of some 600 million acres of public land (national parks, memorials, BLM and Wilderness) from public ownership in order to sell them off to mining, oil and logging companies. This is especially prevalent in the West, including lovely New Mexico. The removal of these lands would have serious impact on a number of levels. Taking NM as an example, the loss of Public lands could cause severe damage to the state economy by hurting tourism. The same goes for any number of Western states. The companies that are bidding for these lands claim that their business will bring jobs, but that old song and dance has never really rang true. Oil lines in North Dakota caused a short term boom but when the work runs out, so does the money. This is also something the many Native American Reservations have been dealing with. Access to public land has a direct link to quality of life and if this goes away, say goodbye to camping, fishing, hiking and all those other adventures you and I love so much. But what really gets me is the blatant disregard for the natural world. Not just the animals, the plants, but mountains, deserts and forests. Not only do they want to remove public access to these wonderful wild places, but they want to dig them up, crack them open and cut them all down. The devastation is two fold. Not only does this cause further endangerment to many species, some already fragile, but perpetuates our reliance on fossil fuel and non renewable energy. For more information check out
http://wilderness.org/keep-americas-public-lands-public-hands, tell your representatives, send letters, tell your friends, write a blog post. Show you care. Because if you don't, you won't know what you missed until it's already gone.

Sing it from the Mountain Top, or "Too Far From the Beaten Path".

  

Top of the Mountain

   Since last time I wrote a post I have a lot of stuff go on in my life, all of it positive I might add, but still requiring a lot of thought processing. When I feel overwhelmed or stressed out, the best place for me is outdoors. I realize that there is a lot of talk about how the outdoors can help with things like depression and anxiety, and that might be true in some cases, but that is not true for everyone. But

Looking East from the Sandias

that's not necessarily what I am talking about. Being outside is like my meditation. Being surrounded by the Natural World refreshes sense of wonder and gives me some perspective. Its like meditation for me. Except I don't really know what that feels like because my mind wanders too much. But I can imagine there is a similarity. Maybe it's standing next to towering Ponderosa pines, hearing the wind blow through the the grass in a high mountain meadow, or making eye contact with a pair of deer as they nonchalantly pick their way through the brush; whatever it is, it brings me peace. As I mentioned before, big week for me. Lots to think about. Something in me decided to climb a mountain. So I did.
     I had been reading about interesting things in the area and read about an outcrop of limestone at the top the Sandias that supposedly had fossils. Nothing really special, mostly coral and small bivalves, but regardless, I wanted to see it. I could have driven to the top, parked, had a short, relaxing hike and been done. Did I do that? No. No I didn't. On a whim I parked just short of halfway up that bad boy and hiked. One of my favorite parts of hiking up a mountain is being able to go through all the different ecosystems that melt together as the elevation increases. The trail I chose began next to a small stream at the very top of Madera Canyon, it was a fairly modest trail, lacking in upkeep and only tenuously marked, making it all the more exciting. Looming above me, somewhere above the massive pines, was the peak that I sought to reach. The tail meandered up around the side the mountain, taking me through some truly beautiful stretches of forest. Unfortunately that was not the case the whole time.
     I spent a lot of time in my life working for a Nature Center in Nebraska where were basically in constant battle with Invasive Species. Sounds dramatic? Good. Because it was. Lost a lot of good

Prescribed burn back in NE

people out there. Stretches of the forest that I walked through were in really bad shape. Inches of duff (basically dead plant matter) covered the forest floor with barely any under story growth. In other places Scrub Oak blanketed the area in a near mono-culture. The mountain is in desperate need of a good burning. Fire was one of the most important aspects of managing our Prairie back home, and is also super important for keeping a healthy forest. I admit, I am not an expert in forest management and I realize there is a ton of planning an budgeting that goes into it. Problem is, unless you stay on top of it, the next time there is a fire it can be severe. Just a week or so ago, a large fire sprung up in the Manzano mountains southeast of Albuquerque. The Sandias are closer to an urban area and could potentially cause a greater loss of property and life if not contained in time. Thousands of years ago, lightening and mindful Native Americans made sure that fire did its part, whether it was intended or not. There are even a number of plants that will remain as seeds until fire coaxes them out. Fire is important, and it hurts my heart to see the forest in such bad shape.

Easiest way to read "Owls Hoot in the Daytime"

     Anyway, enough of the preaching. So I am about halfway to my destination and I stop to down some Powerade. What do I hear? An owl hoot in the daytime. First off, I freaking LOVE owls. Back at the nature center we had these two little screech owls and they were so cute and perched on my hand and then there was this blind Barn Owl and watching him eat was disgustingly fascinating. Second: "Owls Hoot in the Daytime" by Manly Wade Wellman is one of my favorite short stories ever! If you haven't had the chance to read it, find me and I will make sure you do. In the story, the owl calling out during the day signifies that the main character has traveled too far from the beaten
path. It is derived from old Appalachian folklore; I promptly ignored its warning and continued on.

     It was a long trek, not going to lie. I had to take a more than a few breathers because walking up hills is hard work. My eyes widened as I walked

Looking down from the top

into a wide open meadow very near the top. The top of the Sandias is a really popular hiking/trail running/dog walking area and I rapidly came to realize that I was not really in the wild anymore. My dreams of bear taming crushed for the day, I couldn't help but pick up some of the trash I came across in the trail to at least be placed in a trash can next time I saw it. I can forgive ill maintenance of the parkland, I get it, its hard, it costs money, and it can be really dangerous. You know what isn't any of those things? THROWING AWAY YOUR DAMN TRASH. Seriously. Put it where it belongs. Awesome, two preachy moments in one post.

      Anyway, eventually I made my way the highest point on the mountain and looked down and out across the world around me. Gods is it a beautiful sight. In moments like that, I am overwhelmed with a sense of place. That meditation thing I was talking about at the beginning. I knew where I was and for a moment my doubts and fears rushed away with wind. But I still had a goal. I had to find me some fossils. The age of the earth is profound to me. The fact that at the top of the mountain I am standing on what used to be the bottom of an ancient sea. Untold centuries of violent processes radically changed the shape of the surface into what I was seeing then. Talk about perspective. Looking out into the horizon, feeling the weight of time and pressing my hands against the remnants of some of the earliest lifeforms on the planet. People find solace in many things. Religion. Fantasy. Art. I find it most often in the feeling of insignificance. It is peaceful there. Maybe a bit lonely. But it's clarity. For me at least. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I look up at the sky. Down at the world. Peace. The hike back down in way easier. I feel a little high. Maybe its the meditation, maybe its dehydration. Who knows. Aside from being stabbed in the side by a Yucca thorn, it was a good day.

Bottom of the Ocean

Lonely Places, a piece of fiction inspired by a walk in the woods.

Today I took a hike through the woods. There I was, all alone, atop a high ridge in the Sandia Wilderness. All about me were barren pines and hard-scrabble earth. Patches of snow still clung to the ground in places. High above me, a flock of dozens of obsidian black crows flew through the air. A murder. There were signs that someone had been there. But how long ago? A couple rusted cans and a toppled stone fire ring. From a distance it looked like a grave. Then I heard it. A snap of twigs. It was probably a deer. But bears are known to roam the area. I spun around. I searched. But I saw nothing. All that was left was the chill running down my spine. It hadn't been caused by the wind.

The following story is inspired by a walk in the woods similar to the one I had today. I have always found a mystery in nature. Stories of ghosts and lost gold drove me to the wilderness. Searching. Sometimes for something tangible. Sometimes its a feeling. Sometimes its myself. But then there are times out there in wild places, the lonely places, that a feeling can come over you, a feeling that maybe the mystery found you. After all, curiosity killed the cat.

Lonely Places
By L. D. Whitney

I’ve never been sure about what draws me to the lonely places. Do I find some kind of thrill, or maybe an enjoyment, in the dark? Yes. I can’t deny that. But most of all, I’m curious. Like when you take a walk in the woods, all by yourself with no one else around. Do you feel the eyes? The ones watching you from the trees. Most of the time, they probably aren’t there and it’s all just in your head. There is something about being out and alone in nature that makes a person feel like maybe they aren’t alone when they are. But sometimes the feeling is different. Stronger maybe. You look around and all that’s out there is red leaves and dry grass swaying in the breeze. Maybe there’s a river or stream nearby and you here it babbling as the water slides over rocks in the bend. Or maybe its whispers. Some half unheard message floating on a quiet breeze.You hear the locusts off in a thicket, droning on in alien rhythm, like some sort of song. It’s familiar yet strange and distant. An owl hoots but the sun still shines high in the cloudless, sapphire sky. Maybe you’ve gone too far.

The hairs on the back of your neck tingle and stand on end and something moves in the brush just past your sight. Has to be a rabbit, or maybe a squirrel. At least that’s what you tell yourself. All of a sudden you feel sweat on your palms and under your arms but you weren’t sweating just a moment ago. No, you were just standing all alone, taking in the world around you. You look at your watch like the time is getting late, but it’s not. One foot in front of the other and you’re off again, making your way down the winding woodland path. You feel fine again, just for a moment, as you find yourself making progress. Each step takes you closer to where you began, or at least where you’ll end. The flutter of wings breaks the silence and the branches above you are alive. Black shapes burst from their perches, mere silhouettes against the sun. You think for a moment that the wings aren’t like birds’ wings, but leathery and strange. As the figures melt back into the trees, all they leave behind is an echoing call, more like a laugh than a song. Then all that is left are the branches, boney and gnarled. Like great skeleton hands reaching toward the sky. They moan and creak, some ancient agony coursing through their sun bleached bark. 

There’s another sound out there, buried in the pain. Rusty hinges, like on a door not oiled. They squeal with some semblance of life and now that’s all you can hear. Thunder claps, but it’s not thunder, it can’t be. It’s the slam of a door. Now you see it out there, buried in the trees, only given voice by the last breaths of summer as the world gives way to fall. But what’s it doing out here all alone? Alone. Just like you. You think for a second that you probably shouldn’t go in. Old places are dangerous; rotten floor boards, broken glass. But, there is something that is drawing you in. It’s not the house per se, with its open door, knocking, or its two small windows that for just a second look sad. Like eyes asking for pity. Its curiosity, plain and simple, just like I said. You’re curious and you want to look. You’re brave. You came all this way by yourself didn’t you? Cats be damned. There is no hesitation as you step from the safety of the trail and into parts unknown.

Passing through the trunks of great, primeval trees, you press through the bushes and as you go they seem to push back. Only slightly. With a final pull, you’re through and now you find your foot on something strong and firm. A stone, wide and flat, bright green moss growing along its edges. It isn’t the only one either. There are maybe a dozen or so making a little winding path through the fallen leaves and forest rot. Together, they slither through the undergrowth like some monstrous snake born from myth and campfire tales. You walk along the forgotten path and inch closer to the open door, probably not recognizing that it looks something like a mouth, wide and gaping. At least just a little. Out of the corner of your eye you notice the small, shrubby tufts that dot what used to be the yard. You think you see flowers, never mind that it’s far too late in the season to bloom. As you pass you think to yourself that there were three different colored flowers on those shrubs. But that impossible and you force it from your thought. Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, you make it within inches of the door and reach out, grasping the soft, slimy wood and pull yourself past the threshold like you were drowning, a deep gasp fills your frantic lungs with air. You made it, kid. You’re inside.

With a sigh of relief, you nod and accept that you see no danger here. It’s just a small place, some kind of cabin, or maybe a shed. Come to think of it, you couldn’t rightly tell. The inside wasn’t like any house you’d ever seen; just one big room, debris all about the floor. Then again, they used to make things differently back then when surely this house would have been in use. Stepping around the sickly green pools collecting on the floor, you walk around the room. Odd. It seems bigger on the inside that it looked on the outside. You can’t hear the wind anymore, or even the branches scrapping against the old rotting roof. The only thing that catches your ear is a soft gurgle, almost like an upset stomach, but it’s probably just the sound that old houses make. As you walk around, you notice the floor is sticky and soft. All of the wood on the walls and beneath your feet are clammy and slick with mold the color of rotten fruit. And come to think of it, when did people live here? There isn’t any furniture around. No sign that anyone had ever lived here at all. Only scraps of trash and the bones of animals that had crawled in here to die. There’s that owl again. Something moves past the front window, fast and fleeting. You look at your watch again, only this time it is getting late and now you can’t recall how long you’ve been in this place. It’s time to go.

Only you can’t. You try and move your feet but they’re stuck, stuck in that greenish water pooling it your feet, stuck in the pool that wasn’t there just moments before. Outside you here those birds call, faster and a more mocking this time. You pull as hard as you can and your feet begin to move. Something falls from the ceiling and onto your bare arm. You don’t look because you already know what it is. It’s the same stuff that has you stuck to floor, and it burns. Then comes more. It’s on your neck and your hands and it burns all over. Burns like liquid fire on your soft, sweaty skin. You pull your hardest, trying to get free and finally your feet come lose and you stumble, your hands pressing into the soft, wet floor, bones scattering about you. You look up to the door and see it slowly shutting. Your heart is racing, egged on by what you swear is a human skull sitting silently amongst scattered remains. You are tired, you can barely hold on and that sickly stomach sound grows louder with each frantic heartbeat. You just want to sleep, just to close your eyes. Then when you wake up, it’ll all be a dream. Only you know it’s not a dream. Then you feel it, feel them. You aren’t alone anymore. There is someone else here and you feel the cold breath on the back of your neck. You feel their touch, pulling as hard as they can at your aching, burning limbs. “Run.” That’s the last thing you remember. A single word whispered in your ear. And then you run. You run as far and as fast as you can and you

never look back.

Years later, maybe you’re sitting at home or maybe you are out again, alone in the woods. The thought comes racing back to you. It’s blurry. Your head addled with fog, you’re not even sure that it happened the way you think it happened. But it had. The thought of that old house, if that’s what it really was, just sitting out there in the woods, lonely and alone. You feel it come back to you. That feeling from before. Was it still out there? You want to doubt it, but you know better. Had anyone else come along? Was there something you could do? Or maybe should have done? And who was it that whispered that single word into your ear? The one that saved your life. There it is again, your old friend curiosity. Maybe you’ll go back. Just to take a peek.

Cats be damned.

One day, I hope to publish this story, along with others, in a collection. If you like it, keep an eye out.

Girl's just want to climb mountains, and scuba dive, and....

Anyone who knows me, knows I am a sucker for treasure hunts. I also have a love for video games. Combining these two interests naturally led me to Lara Croft, heroine of the Tomb Raider series. In the Old Days of gaming, Lara was the pinnacle of the "sex sells" mentality. She was tall, toned, big breasted and supposedly beautiful (although the polygons never did her justice). The gameplay involved in the globe trotting, puzzle solving adventures, was revolutionary. Just like her character design. The games were good, for the most part, but Old School Lara is definitely a huge smear on representation of women in Gaming. Fast forward to 2013, Lara has now changed hands a few times and has now completed her transformation into a real person. Her story has been rebooted (like so many Hollywood icons), she is now a young woman, wait for it.....designed after an actual woman! Her proportions are right, she has feelings and thoughts and even moves realistically! Best of all, she wears clothes that are climatically appropriate. This may seem like a strange start to a blog post about exploration, but I promise, its relevant.

http://www.howmanly.com/manly-video-games/going-soft-makes-her-stronger/

One of my favorite YouTube stars.

Just the other night, I was having dinner with my Guiding Teachers. One of them is the proud mother (the other a father) of a little girl so of course toys were scattered across the room, one of which was a doll  A doll whose skin color matched that of the daughter's. This got me to thinking about how women are represented to young girls. Having been a camp counselor, I am well aware of the "That's for Boys" mentality that is usually unknowingly pressed on young girls who show even the slightest inkling of outdoorsy stuff. One of my proudest moments was taking a group of teenage girls to the lake to go fishing for the very first time. These girls, most born and raised within the dreaded confines of New York City, only got to be truly outdoors during Summer Camp. I had the privilege of being their very first Nature Director. Seeing their faces when they reeled in their catches was deeply gratifying. Just as gratifying as seeing the littler girls' faces light up when they caught a toad or salamander or pregnant spider (gross (seriously gross)).

Now to bring it all together. I came into archaeology because of the romance and adventure. However real or imaginary. Other archaeologists will bemoan my interest in treasure hunts and lost cities, but you can't deny that that shit is cool. I got the idea that drove me to my first career from fictional characters. Barnabas and Tell Sackett, Alan Quartermain, Dirk Pitt, Rick O'Connell and yes...Indiana Jones. All of them are men. It wouldn't be until I was in my 20's whe Lara and I would finally make a connection. This is a problem. One day, I would love to see an old camper, future student or even a daughter, out there exploring the world. But, much like the doll mentioned above, its up to us to provide the role models, both fictional, like Lara Croft, and real. In an attempt to do my part, I am going to provide a list of as many female Adventurers and Explorers as I can manage. The following list will most assuredly not be comprehensive, but will provide examples both real and imaginary. For every Nathan Drake in the world, there should be a Lara Croft.


Fictional Characters:
Lara Croft- Tomb Raider (2012), Rise of the Tomb Raider (2015)
Evy Carnahan/ O'Connell - The Mummy (1999), The Mummy Returns (2001), Don't watch the 3rd.
Adele Blanc-Sec- The Extraordinary Adventures of Adele Blanc-Sec (2010)
Samus Aran- Metroid Series
Lillith- Borderlands (2009)
Maya- Borderlands 2 (2012)
Gauge- [Also] Borderlands 2 (2012)
Athena- Borderlands the Pre-Sequel (2014)
Echo Sackett- Ride the River by Louis L'amour
Dr. Abigail Chase- National Treasure Series
Annja Creed- Rogue Angel book Series
The Danger Girls- Danger Girl Comic
(I know, some of these are a stretch, but that's because my pickings were slim)

Real People:
Amelia Earhart: First woman to fly solo across the Atlantic
Renata Chlumska- Climbed Mt. Everest and Biked across lower 48 States
Calamity Jane- Professional Scout and Frontierswoman
Nellie Bly- Journalist who traveled around the world in 72 Days
Gerlinde Kaltenbrunner- Climbed all 14 Eight-thousander Mountains without O2 assistance
Barbara Hillary- First African American to travel to the North Pole
Kira Salak- Journalist and Writer who solo kayaked down the Niger River
Ellen MacArthur- Sailed 27,000 miles in 71 days
Eileen Collins- Astronaut, first female Commander of the orbiter
Cecilie Skog- 1st woman to stand on both poles and the highest peaks on every continent
Jessica Watson- Circumnavigated the Globe at age 18

There are actually a ton of woman explorers and adventurers, I will be sure to feature some in the upcoming months.
I realize that I am likely very late to this conversation. In fact, this is the kind of thing that I have tried to avoid for most of my life. Social Justice has not truly been a concern of mine until the last year or so. Admittedly, the plight of Mother Nature is what concerns me the most. True love for nature seems to be dying. At least to me. I'm a pessimist. In order to foster this kind of caring, it is important to get people interested. To do that, it is important that new generations have role models that represent them. Explorers and Adventurers are historically represented as men. Shackleton, Darwin, Cook, Drake, Lawrence, Coronado, Columbus, Magellan, Polo, Fawcett. All men. It wasn't until I started researching this post that I could think of any women in the field aside from Amelia Earhart. Where are the tough, intelligent, head strong women? They are out there. And I hope that a new generation of adventurers, finds inspiration in them.

For anyone that reads this, I hope that you take the time to encourage a young woman in your life to get out there and explore!

A walk down a forested path, or "how I get lost..."

   Finally I feel like its safe to say that spring is upon us. I am sitting here and as we speak the temperature is gradually reaching into the 70's. Thank the gods. Yesterday it was nice enough for me to venture forth into the wilderness and go on my first real hike of the year.
    I almost always like to stick close to the river, I have always had a fondness for water and fate probably missed the boat by not making me a fish. Right now the water is still frozen solid on the surface but life is already waking beneath the frozen sheet. I came across a young man fishing through a hole in the ice and I sat watched him creepily with my phone camera poised to catch the act of pulling a fish from the river. It never happened. Too bad.
     After climbing some trees and steep embankments I came across the undeniable scent of skunk. I am by no means an expert tracker, but I do share a name with wolverine and decided I would try and follow my nose. I successfully tracked the skunk to its den. On second thought I may have been smelling a skunk victim, but alas I did not find the smelly culprit.
     I did however, stumble across an archaeological site. It appears to be a trash dump littered with bottles and automotive parts. I know it doesn't sound exciting but it is so deal with it. Using the bases of some bottles I was able to place it somewhere within the realm of the mid 1950's. Not anything super old but technically anything over 50 years old counts.
    Afterwards I bushwhacked back to the jeep and rewarded myself with a mint chip cliff bar. Mmmmmm. I suggest to all of you that you get outside and take some time to see what you can find. Don't be afraid to travel off the beaten path and poke around where you might not think you should. Just finding little mysteries in the world or maybe things you've never seen before can make the whole day worth it.

Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie...

     As many of you know, I have been hired as a field surveyor on an archaeological project in New Mexico. This is my first job as a professional archaeologist and is quite exciting. I have already done one 8 day session but unfortunately I did not bring my computer nor my camera. I can assure you that it was a fantastic first week on the job despite the nearly constant presence of rain. We are surveying ground for a windmill farm that is taking us across a multitude of ranch land in central New Mexico. The majority of our findings are depression era relics however we have also found many stone tools from wandering Native Americans. Today was a particularly exciting day; firstly because I brought my camera and secondly because we found a site that told a story. I am going to share that story with you now.

     In the early 1900's the railroads passed through and bought up all the land alongside the tracks. Eventually this land was sold to people all over the country, but mostly back east with the promise that the land would be fertile for years to come. Many of these men and women took to growing beans; think pinto, not soy. This worked fine for awhile, however the elevation of the area keeps the annual rainfall fairly low and eventually the farmland was drying up. Then comes the Dust Bowl and Great Depression. These hard times cause many people to drop everything and leave, some head back east, others west as migrant workers. The remnants of this era are scattered about the empty short grass prairie.
     My day started out relatively normal as far as survey goes. We drove our truck down some lonely dirt roads that snake between large tracts of grassland. We parked, we got out, we line up and then marched in lines. For the first hour or so we found nothing, which seems to be the norm out here. A herd of female Pronghorns trotted by and a very short distance, followed closely by two ever watchful males. Shortly after we met the owner of the property who has lived on this land all his life; we all guess he was pushing his 80's. His father moved out here and bought the land in 1913 and started out as a bean farmer but turned to cattle when the farming looked bleak. This is one of the few families the survived through the Dust Bowl.

Remains of Model T

1930's wheel well/running board

     In another 45 minutes of walking we began to see scatterings of objects on our transects. The first being an old trash pile with the remains of a Model T Ford as its center piece. Later we found the wheel well and running board of a 1930's style luxury car. Atop the next hill appears to be some kind of structure that our boss guesses is the homestead to which the trash belongs to. As we get close the debris become more frequent. We start seeing old fruit or meat cans, Prince Albert tobacco and shattered glass jars. Upon finally reaching the top of the long rolling hill we come upon the place where someone once tried to make a home.
    The bodies of two old farm trucks; one a Ford, the other likely a Chevy, sit rusting away. A well
sits unused, still filled with water, and a scattering of large stones and a deep depression marks where

the dugout that the family lived in once stood. Among the artifacts that we found were broken china with intricate flower patterns, broken wine bottles, cosmetic jars, a belt buckle, a marble, various tools. Now I love the mystery found in a scattering of prehistoric pottery and flaked stone, but those kinds of artifacts leave behind a lot of guess work. Here we had a story of people who tried to make a living in a far away place and failed. These people are likely remembered by someone, their records left behind in a census or bill of sale or some such thing. This makes the site more personal and easier to access in a number of ways. This isn't the only sign of the tragedies of the Dust Bowl, not but 3 miles away is another abandoned farmstead. These are the sad, lonely reminders of one of the worst hard times in

Remains of Dugout House

American History.


















Here are some other pictures from the day...

Discovering the Undiscovered

   The air was crisp but I knew that it would rapidly warm as the desert sun rose above the jagged peaks  to the east. There had been frost lining the edges of small, leafy plants nestled in the shade of tall desert trees not but minutes earlier. The sand beneath my feet was cool and damp from the rain and melting mountain snow from the previous days. As I walked slowly through the lowland desert landscape, weaving between huddles of dense Mesquite trees I felt alone. The only other footprints were those of small white tailed deer that crisscrossed the barren sand where the dry, golden grass refused to grow. The morning sun reflected  from small pieces of white and rose quartz that dotted the red, gritty earth. It is hard for me to walk in the wilderness with my head raised to the horizon, years of archaeology training has forced my eyes to scour the ground for signs of past inhabitants. Hundreds of years ago, men from Portugal and Spain came to this desert as well as many other lands, claiming it a "New World", an entire continent now discovered and ripe for the taking. One after another, my steps led me through the low canyon; something caught my eye and I stopped. The distinct rust red of an ancient fragment of Hohokam pottery stood out just enough from the sand and rock to be noticeable to anyone who was looking. I had somewhat of a revelation just then...perhaps not so much a revelation as a realization; a sinking in of sorts. I had known for some time that there have been people here far longer than we know. I suppose being involved in archaeology had led to a kind of disassociation with the world. Maybe this was something I had thought before, or known all along, or some repressed notion hidden away by my romantic ideas of discovery. Whatever it may have been, it was apparent now that there was no real discovery here, not even when the Conquistadors and colonists came. Thousands of years ago this land had already been seen and settled and tamed. It had all been stamped out or forgotten and now I realized what I was discovering was no more a discovery than the New World. It is but a rediscovering of the lost. Maybe this is the true discovery.
    The question of who the first "discoverers" of the "New World" has always been a point of contention.  It has been taught for decades that those that would become what we call Native Americans traipsed here over the frozen Bering land bridge during the the thick of the last Ice Age. Popular opinion would have you believe that these people migrated from Asia by following giant Mega -fauna, mammoths and their ilk, through a convenient ice free corridor that existed in modern day Canada. Over the decades their has been numerous pieces of evidence that place people in the Americas long before 10,000ish B.C., when this corridor "would" have existed. Now it appears that there were multiple waves of colonization from Asia. It has been proposed that it one wave made their way along the western coasts and finally settled in South America long before North America became inhabited. This is shown in a number of artifacts found in the southern jungles that date well before any artifacts in the United States. These people would have been the first men and women to see these new continents, they were the first discoverers.*
      Not far from where I stood, perhaps only half and hour's walk, I knew that that long ago, maybe one thousand years or more someone had stayed for a night, I had seen it before. A few years ago, my wife, good friend Abraham and went hiking down a canyon while researching the legend of the lost Escalante Mine in the Santa Catalina Mountains. The trek was quite arduous, their were spots in the path heavy with deep sand, in other places large boulders blocked our way. Abraham and I scaled the northern slope of the canyon in order to see if we were still continuing on our intended path and on the way back down I slipped and nearly slid into a large diamond back rattlesnake that did not take kindly to the handful of loose rock I had just kicked his way. We eventually came to the end of the canyon as I we hoped we would, although unfortunately it did not perfectly fit the story we were following. Here we were met with a very steep and well worn cliff where water cascades when the winter snows are melting. Pools of green tinged water where clusters of wasps hovered and drank. Atop the dry falls we met a couple of women who had followed a trail alongside the canyon and had been watching us. This was rather disheartening as we had thought the canyon would have led farther into the mountains or would be more remote. Never the less, we talked to the duo and offered some insect sting ointment from our first ad kit to one who had been bit by some crawling thing or another. Before we parted, one of them told us we should investigate a small area jutting out above the canyon. She claimed she "felt an old energy". I am not one to readily believe claims of being psychic but what we found there left me thinking.

      Nestled between rocks and dry desert grass was a small ring of stone. Abraham was curious as to why I was so interested in the anomaly. I explained to him that it this was what archaeologists call a rock circle; this had once been an ancient campsite. Upon further investigation we found a great deal of pottery sherds* and lithic* fragments scattered about the area. Abraham expressed that he would have simply written it off as an abandoned hiker's camp site. By that time, I had seen many features such as this during archaeology field school and the evidence here was enough to say with a great deal of certainty that this site was left behind by the natives of Tucson River Valley quite some time ago.
      This is not the only place in the world where the sands of time have washed away memories of the past. Humans have been on this planet for over 200 thousand years; while a mere blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things, this is a massive amount of time and during that time span humans have walked over nearly every place on Earth. Again I stood amidst the desert landscape, the spirit of ancients, settlers and legend danced on the winds around me, the high granite peaks loomed above and at my feet lie the shattered memories of a forgotten people. Now I fully realized that I was not discovering the undiscovered but in fact remembering the unremembered. That is not to say that there is nothing to be found that hasn't already been seen; the woodlands of Canada, the Amazon, the Himalayan Mountains, all fortresses still resisting the advance of man...or are they?

 

*For more information of the pre-contact Americas, check out 1491 by Charles C. Mann
*For whatever reason archaeologists deemed it necessary to say pot sherd instead of pot shard
*Lithics are simply worked stone tools

Books and Maps

     It has been a very busy Christmas vacation and I haven't had a lot of time to write a new complete blog but I promise there should be one up in the next couple days. In the meantime I want to leave you with something to think about. My wife, roommate and I have just returned from seeing The Hobbit: an Unexpected Journey (a fantastic movie by the way) and there was something that Gandalf said that I found very poignant.

"The world is not found in your books and maps."

Just something to keep in mind.

                                        -LDW

A Walk Beneath the Long Dead Sea: or "My Trip to the Badlands of South Dakota" Part 3

     Following the series of stone monuments that had been left for travelers like me, I made my way through the tall emerald grass accented with the brilliant whites, yellows and purples of the native wild flowers. The trail edged along a eight foot or so drop off that acted as a kind of barrier between the viewer and a gallery of strange sculptures carved from the ancient stone. There were windows and doors and twisting pillars and a whole menagerie of petrified creations. It is funny how time changes things, changes all things, even those that seem the most solid, the most resistant. These monuments were once grand and imposing, part of another much more mammoth work of creation. Now they are little more than the size of us. Wind, water, and the flow of time had already sealed their fate long before the sea tides ever peeled away and revealed what it hid to the world. As the layers chip, crack and fall the remnants of ages undreamed reveal that all things are born, crumble and are born anew.

In this age of concrete, steel and computer chips, it is easy to see that humans are dominate in this world. We have managed to conquer nearly every environment, defy gravity, travel continents in hours. It is easy to think that we are unstoppable, invincible, that the tides of fate do not apply for we are the chosen ones, masters and creators of our own destiny. For countless eons this planet has harbored lifeforms great and small, they engulfed the Earth with enumerable species of all kinds. And yet here we, a product of the continuing cycles of life. It is foolish to think that humanity will last forever, despite the towers, the technology, we too will pass with time and in the wake of our going, it will be the turn of another.
     As I continued down the trail I came across something that I had not really expected to find. Atop a small island raised above the ground was a small patch of Prickly Pear cactus. Out west this type of cacti and its brethren are everywhere, in the Great Plains, not so much. Cacti are native to the central corridor of the United States and can be found in South Dakota, Nebraska, and Kansas. When thinking of the plains many envision endless prairies and fields of corn, perhaps some cattle ranches thrown in the mix. There is actually a great number of smaller ecosystems interspersed, such as the Badlands and the Sand Hills of Nebraska. Some of these areas have the kinds of stuff Cacti love to live in. My grandfather actually grows one in a garden and it manages to live throughout the often harsh Nebraska winters. I have many less than fond memories of pulling spines from my calves and forearms after trudging through the desert on survey. When in the desert it was normal, perhaps a tad mundane to see this plant, as common as grass in Nebraska. Here it was somewhat of a gift. An unexpected reminder that within a world of lines and grids and barbed wire fences there are some things that can transcend the arbitrary boundaries that we assign to the world we live in. I recently listened to a piece on NPR that spoke of a a journey to the sea floor in Antarctica. This particular voyage was searching for a an elusive three-eyed tube worm that colonizes around volcanic vents on the ocean floor. Instead of these worms, they found fields and fields of yellow "fluff". This fluff turns out to be one of the oldest organisms on the planet. The piece ended with a very poignant statement, that nature does not care what we expect to find, it will be where it is whether we want it to be or not.

     After pulling myself back up to the trail I continued to walk in peace. According to the map I would soon come to a cross roads that would lead to a parking lot in one direction and a path back towards where I came from in the other. I had not seen any people thus far and enjoyed the solitude although there were times it was somewhat eerie. In my everyday life it is very difficult to come across loneliness and silence. It is true that while in nature I had still not found neither loneliness or silence but I had found an escape. Here there were no cars, no television, no computers, even my phone was off (I always carry it in case of an emergency). Being without these things are nearly heresy in modern times. There was still the wind, the birds, and insects all around me but I would gladly take them over sirens, traffic and commercials. Regardless, I knew it would not be long till someone ventured across my path and lo and behold, I had found them. At the cross roads were an older couple, probably late fifties or early sixties, the wife peering through a pair of binoculars and the husband scanning a wrinkled brochure.
     I walked up to them, looking what I would deem imposing with my large pack, knife strapped to waist and black bandanna wrapped around my head. This couple saw me and waved vigorously and I returned the wave with a smile. We greeted each other with handshakes and smiles although our names were never shared. This couple was lively and friendly, on a road trip across the U.S. vacationing from Canada. They were searching for the Big Horn Sheep that were supposedly roaming this area and asked if I had seen any. Unfortunately I had not, they seemed somewhat disappointed but still undaunted. They inquired as to how far I'd walked and we shared a bit of conversation about the great outdoors. I noticed the portly man red and sweaty and they were both lacking in water. Anyone who knows the first thing about hiking knows you need water, dehydration is a very serious thing. Being an Eagle Scout I am always prepared and had ample amounts of water bottles in my pack and they were grateful to have some. After a bit more chatter we parted ways and I wished them a safe and enjoyable trip. Before I left they thanked me for both the water and for being interested and caring about the outdoors. They said that far too many people my age just aren't interested. I thanked them and left with a feeling of pride. I am glad I had met these strangers and that our brief intersection had meant something to all of us.
     The last leg of this section took me to the edge of  the plateau where I could look out into the bulk of the Badlands. It was a barren, wasted land. Rocky spines and crags lifted above deep, shear gorges where little grew. At the bottom of these canyons were pools of muddy, brackish water. It was beautiful and terrifying as I looked out over the blasted heath and stared down into the crevasse below. Far off in the distance was a sea of green, a safe haven from this little patch of hell. This had been a rewarding venture for me, a chance to walk through time, to imagine the ages that came before, to see a still wild place nestled in the farmlands of Middle America, to meet people that I have never met and to share something with them. There was more that I saw and experienced in this almost alien terrain, but if I told you everything there would be nothing left for you to experience if you have the chance to go and see it for yourself. In nature some are driven to see God, others peace and the sublime, for others like me it is beauty and realization of place.

 
 Thanks you for following me on this journey, I hope you enjoyed it and continue to read.

-Logan

A Walk Beneath the Long Dead Sea: or "My Trip to the Badlands of South Dakota" Part 2

     I pulled my sunglasses from my face, lifted my hat from my head, and wiped away the sweat already beginning to bead just beneath my hairline. The dark clouds that had blotted out the sun had now ventured forth to lands unknown and the sun shown full bore in the hazy blue sky. The air was dry and warm but a cool breeze found its way to my skin intermittently. I looked on as the the gentle breath sent the green grass waving like an emerald ocean. A trail of almost non existent footprints led into the open prairie where they would soon disappear and the trail would be up to me to decipher. Narrow lanes of barren, dusty earth snaked their way through the field, looking like a maze of trails that led to nowhere and everywhere all at ounce. Not so far off in the distance was a small orange marker, just like the ones that led me up the cliff face, I put one foot forward and off I went. I wished greatly to be able to explore the areas off the trails, but out of respect for the wildlife and their home I opted to stay relatively close to the mapped path. In a place like this, be it State Park, National Park, game reserve or whatever, it is important to not disturb what little patch of ground we have designated as wilderness. Haven't we as humans taken enough from what was already here?
     I walked slowly through prairie imagining the bygone years. Once this was home to number of great beasts; rhinoceros, North Amercan camels, a variety of horses that would later migrate to Europe and Asia before being sealed off from this continent, only for their descendants to find their way back here aboard great Spanish galleons. Giant land tortoises once munched on reeds growing alongside muddy watering holes. Tall, spindle legged birds would watch carefully and quietly, the diminutive deer ever wary of the the scimitar-cats stalking through the tall grass. Just below their feet lay dormant the fossils of a once teaming sea. Time marches on and in another epoch, man has found its way here. Now great Mammoths are hunted by roving bands of nomads, travelers from Asia far from their homeland. And farther on still, their memory erased, no sign left except chipped stone spear points and scenes of a fresh kill. New waves of people immigrate to this land, the Lakota, the Dakota peoples, all travelers journeying through space and time only to once again be displaced as settlers from Europe claim America as their home.
     As I walked I looked carefully at all the earth formations and  along the ground, part habit from my days in Archaeology field school, part desire to find some sort of fossil, some tangible proof that there was once something else here, that there is more to the story than the cover. I walked between two small bluffs with barren sides and hats of bright green grass, the layers of sediment were stacked high like a tower of crepes on a breakfast plate. My map warned of two animals that I might encounter: the American Bison, and the Mountain Lion. I had seen both before, albeit behind fence and plexiglass. I knew the size a Bison could achieve and that that can be ornery, but I relished the idea of seeing some of the last wild Bison on the continent. What really gave me a case of the chills was the idea that a Cougar could be watching me, just like the saber toothed cats of old.

     In Arizona there have been a number of fatal lion attacks in the mountains, and I had read heavily about how to change your status as prey if need be. First off, mountain lions mark their territory heavily and if one is in the area you should recognize it by its pungent urine odor. If you should happen to see one, the idea is to make yourself look as big and loud as possible. Wave you coat or shirt in the air, hold your backpack high above your head, yell and jump around. What do predators generally prey upon? Deer, young cows, gazelle in Africa, all animals that are quiet and skittish, much like bears, they are not looking for a fight, they want an easy meal. Note that these methods are not guaranteed but have been shown to improve your likelihood, if the need should ever arise.

      The grass gave way to a scene that I found very interesting, here on a barren patch of ground lay scatter hundreds of small roundish rocks. To me it looked very much like they had been washed ashore on a beach. Much to my amusement, some travelers coming through this place long before me had written messages with the stones. One greeted me, one told me I was on the right track, another was just simply a smiling face. The messages weren't big, and for that I was grateful, it could have been relatively easy to eliminate this sight by moving the rocks around. It was also nice to see there was nothing obscene written in tiny rock messages. Don't get me wrong, I am by no means a prude, but I find it infinitely distasteful when someone simply has to scrawl vulgar words or whatever in places that are public. I like to think of it as preserving the innocence of a child just a little a bit longer.
     Once again, I found myself off the map, and wandering only where I thought the trail was leading. I stood atop a small mound and peered through my binoculars partly admiring the scenery, partly wondering where the hell I was, when something caught my eye. A small pile of rocks, deliberate, placed conveniently where someone looking would be able to find it. Then I saw more. The little stone cairns were left to help those lost to find their way...

    
     I was going to attempt to write more, but I felt like I might be getting long winded, plus I love cliff hangers. Instead I am going to opt to put up a few pictures of what I have seen on my trip thus far. Hopefully you will keep coming back for more, there is an end to this trip, I promise!

The Badlands Plateau

Above the trail

Thousands of pebble strewn on the shore

The Mourning Giant

This is only a fraction of the Turkeys I saw

As requested by a reader, here are two pictures of the Prairie Dogs

Peeking up to say hello

The Jagged Horizon