The Band Bus

It is with great resistance that I say this: it's our last day here. It is the last day that I may sit in the presence of these red, stately sentinels. It is the last time I may hear the Virgin River pass by as it breathes life into an otherwise harsh land. It is the last time in a long while that I may awake and find myself in this paradise.

This place, despite my doe-eyed musings, is in no way forgiving. There's more evidence of death - twisted trunks of trees that have no memory of their old budding leaves, vultures circling patiently for the next soul to fall victim to the desert sun - than of life. Run out of water, take a wrong step and you become merely another nameless to be claimed by the canyons. Yet in many ways life is far more celebrated here. Living things are sparce and thus sen individually rather than lumped together as they are back home. A drop of water is a godsend, and a cloud shelf is a good friend that never visits enough.

Someday I'll come back. I doubt I could go on knowing I wouldn't. Whether I can bring myself to live here is another matter. It's not the heat that concerns me. I've gone through 100+ degree days and find it more comfortable than I thought. What's stopping me from making my stand in a place that I love is the fact that I'll be joined by so many others. They come to find solitude and to get away from it all, yet inadvertently they end up bringing it all with them. Moab is Utah's Bend. I can't bring myself to aid in the taming of the West, when it was its wilds and spirit that I fell in love with. At the same time, though, we're being told to pursue what makes us happy. I'd work at a 2-star hotel if it meant I could be here.

Yet now I think of home, my current home, rather. I think of the coast, of the mountains, of the Gorge. Leaving that is as hard as leaving here. How can I be two states away from the coast? How can I be without so much green? Every thing's so fresh in Oregon, and much tamer. A storm in Oregon means the rain's falling just a little bit longer and the wind's blowing just a smidge harder. It's a metropolitan/rustic blend of utopia. It's safe, forgiving. And of course, once an Oregonian, always an Oregonian.

This is a conflict I do not take lightly. In which paradise can I find the greatest peace? The calm of a forest painted with all the colors of fall, whispering as a mountain breeze meanders by. Silently, the leaves are caught up and fall softly onto a still lake. The sun makes its way over the hills and mountains, sweeping away the fearful night, and the songbirds praise its coming. Then there's the canyon, an island in the sky overlooking lands man has never before set food on, and more assuringly never will. A gust of wind races past you and dives into the canyon and then nothing - not the rustling of brush nor the solemn eulogy of a raven. The silence is incomparable. No amount of decorated language can describe the peace you feel. You want to call out into the infinite expanse, for never before have you been so aware of the fact that you're alive. In the whole world, there are no others save you, and all that matters is you and the maze of white rimmed ravines and canyons that stretch for eternity, swallowing the sun in a riot of colors.

Heh, well, I think I've made my choice....