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It's four weeks now since I left my hiking companions
and struck out alone in the Escalante Wilderness
of Southern Utah; a time of driving rough dirt roads,
hiking to scenic places mostly empty of people and
viewing the world through the lens of my camera.
My new daytime companions have been an occasional
bird song, the frenzied scurrying of lizards, the
rustle of yellow leaves. At nighttime there's been
the light and warmth of a small campfire, a now
and then coyote's yip, the moon traveling the night
sky.
Now, heading home, a small town in Utah offers
a cyber-café. I enter, am flooded with the
smell of coffee and baked goods, the sound of new
age music. In this Mormon dominated town, the café
is an alternative gathering place for a mix of people
who wear the down-to-earth garb of the 70s. Crafts
and artwork decorate the walls. A bulletin board
offers the usual in new age dalliances: massage,
tarot, acupuncture, whole earth foods.
Like me, a number of people work their computers.
I don't speak with anyone except to order coffee
and food. Yet, I feel connected, as if in a haven
constructed especially for solo travelers and outcasts.
The screen blinks on and email floods in-messages
from friends and work associates and a tidal wave
of spam ads offering comfort in pills, sexual aids
and the companionship of wanton females. I feel
as the sailors must have in the 19th century when
a passing ship dropped off a mailbag or when their
ship anchored in the occasional port.
Bits and pieces of information float in, rest in
my mind like the flotsam and jetsam found on a beach,
fill me with the tidings of 'home'. There is good
news and troubling news. I feel both the urge to
run back to the desert lands and the urge to rush
home.
desert stream bed-
a scatter of debris from
the last flash flood
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