I remember when my family used to visit my grandfather's cattle ranch in the high desert east of Prineville, Oregon. For a city kid, the silence of the open country was profound. At the time, I wasn't sure I liked it. Jets were tiny white dots in the sky, speeding toward Portland International Airport. They left contrails but made no sound.
Camping in the high desert of Flagstaff, Arizona, gives me a similar feeling. On a Sunday morning, nobody is up. I'm the only one walking along the gravel road, heading to who knows where, someplace I've never been. A few cars pass, kicking up great clouds of dust (implanting seeds of my future resentments). Before long, more cars, more people, and wonder of wonders, the sound of gunshots. Yep. There's a shooting range not far away.
Nothing shatters silence like gunshots.
This is mining country. The mining companies moved on and left craters, half craters, slag heaps of gravel. The half craters make really good shooting ranges. I made the mistake of driving in that direction, seeking a better cell signal. I found the cell signal next to the shooting range. Two men were there, one supervising, and one sitting at a folding table aiming a long gun at a target some yards away. Blam! Then a few minutes later, blam! This morning was quiet, but around 9:00 a.m. the gunshots began again.
So there's that.
On the bright side, I met a guy who addressed me as "neighbor," and we talked for a bit. His name is John. I hope I remember that. He lives in a trailer, drives a red car, rides a bike, goes shirtless, wears a Christian cross on a necklace, and has a mother who worries about his well being. Fellow neighbor, fellow nomad.
It's beautiful in the forest. Last night I dreamed it was on fire.
Walking in the early morning sunshine in a timber forest in the high desert puts me in the here and now. It's the safest place to be when one is homeless. Living today for a better past is futile. Living in the wreckage of the future is crazy making. The only safe place is the present. My demented mother was a Zen master. I learned a lot from witnessing her decline.
I don't know if I'll live long enough to see my own decline into dementia, and even if I do, there's a good chance there will be no facility to take care of me until I die. My retirement plan is fentanyl. I can only hope my brain holds out long enough to score some and my courage holds out long enough for me to take it.
On that sober note, welcome to a new confounding fresh hell. There's room in the hand basket for you, in case you want some company on your own hellish descent.
