Under The Southwest Sky
Perched on rust colored slickrock, I watched the sun slip
steadily behind the huge canyon walls that rose before me.
The orange glow of the sunset brought out the red gold hues
of the giant sandstone cliffs that seemed to be reaching for
the turquoise sky. Light winds were playing with the spindly
branches of the short, stubby pinion pine under which I’d
pitched my royal blue shelter. The splash of color greatly
contrasted with the gray green clumps of juniper and sage
bushes that dotted the rough red sand of Lime Canyon, one
of the canyons that makes up part of the vast canyon system
of Canyonlands National Park in Southeastern Utah. I was camping
solo for three days in one site. It was on this "solo"
that I learned the value of solitude. Solitary time in nature
can guide one to realize the splendor and significance of
the natural world.
My campsite was in the corner of a small side canyon, where
two walls that didn’t quite meet in a corner formed a
chimney. On the second evening of my trip, I climbed up the
chimney and onto a broad shelf in the canyon wall. It was
sitting there, on that shelf, contemplating the scene before
me, that I realized and acknowledged the beauty of solitude
and the power of nature. Sitting under the moon’s glow,
I felt pleasure after relaxing during the day in the warm
glow of the sun. It was slightly chilly. The moonlight illuminated
the cliffs against the dusky blue sky. A gentle breeze brought
the scent of sage and juniper to my nose. I wished I could
stay forever… but I also missed hearing the sounds of
human voices. How could three days of solitude feel so fleeting,
yet so long, all at once?
But I didn’t regret that I was alone. It seemed to highlight
the natural cycles of the earth. It was incredible to me.
I remember thinking, "The earth lives! It breathes!"
I’d read a quote by naturalist Jeff Anderson earlier
that day referring to the natural processes taking place on
the canyon floor. "The air is filled with the sounds
of erosion, evaporation, and photosynthesis. The silence is
deafening," he wrote. I could sense those cycles too.
I experienced them too, such as noting what types of rock
were in which stage of the rock cycle, knowing they would
break down and become one with the Earth’s core before
rising and cooling once more. Or by feeling the sand that
blew into my eyes, knowing once it was solid rock and would
be again. Or as simply as seeing the sun rise and set each
day.
When I described nightfall on that second evening in my journal,
I wrote of the way external life cycles seemed to influence
my own natural rhythm. "Now it is dusk," I wrote.
"The sun is sunken behind the canyon wall and as the
temperature drops, my energy goes too. As the moon slowly
rises above the opposite wall of the canyon, stars begin to
peep out one by one as the light changes and fades. Soon I’ll
crawl into my sleeping bag, cozy until dawn, when the changing
light stirs my spirit once more, awakening my senses to the
circle of life."
