Thinking about a strange place that I go. It's out in the middle of the Mojave desert. I stop there when I drive to the SW - it's the halfway point on a 15 hour drive. If I stop and sleep, it means I can leave late one afternoon and get in by lunch the next day - perfect for my kind of schedule.
Anyway, this place is off a highway. You drive up into the mountains for about 20 mins. It's night and there are no lights, so moths are splatting on the windshield, swimming before the headlights, and jackrabbits bound in front of you. Last time I was there, spring rains had washed out a big chunk of the road. I almost plunged the car into a 6 foot deep abyss before I swerved to avoid it.
Drive through the sagebrush, the weeds, the undergrowth. Drive down a two-track. Stop at the first level spot, turn off the car, get out. Dryness crackles all around. Stillness. The occasional clicking of the cooling car. Mountains loom on the horizon, east and west. To the south, a steady stream of night-travelers worms its way to the distance, but in silence. I'm too far away to hear anything.
I like to walk here in the night. Finding my way around by only the light of the moon. If it's hot, I'll shed clothes but keep on the flip-flops. Primitive-ish man in desert. Scrambling about through washes, rock piles, and uplifts. A coyote yips in the distance and I yip back. The toasted moon shines down.
In the morning, I go for another walk and find an old rusted prince albert can. Inside, a mining claim from 1962 - cinnabar. The paper is crinkled and burned from the dryness. I carefully fold it, put it back in the can, and leave it where I found it.
The next rain will erase the fact that I was here.
