This is a personal story about family life, rediscovering nature, and facing the truth about humans becoming more fully human when integral human development replaces the rat race that reduces everything to money, career, and the accumulation of stuff.
March 24, 2015
We’ve gotten older now, but on March 24, 2015, in celebration of his 70th birthday, and my 40th, Dad and I headed out of Albuquerque, New Mexico on 25 South. We took exit 89… or maybe it was exit 83, got onto 52, and drove off into the Gila National Forest. At 40 years old I was, from almost the instant we pulled away from Mom and Dad’s Albuquerque home, transported from my daily career worries. The smooth whine of tires on a highway and the hot sun beating down on me in the passenger seat began to lull me away. I wasn’t “Career Me” anymore, I was just a guy on a trip with his dad, and we could have been about to stop at Shipley Do-Nuts in Hattiesburg, Mississippi on our way for a day out in the Gulf, or the Stained Glass Bluegrass Hour could have been seconds away from coming on as we returned from some weekend-long trip with his grad students while the headlights of passing cars blurred lines in the dark.
About a third of the way to our exit we stopped at the Walking Sands Rest Area. A sign I was ultimately to recognize as common to the area caught my attention: “Beware the Rattlesnakes.” Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” blared from dusty, sun-bleached speakers interspersed among faded buildings. “Mama Mia, mama mia, mama mia, let me go” rolled out across the golden sands as a whirlwind whipped tumbleweeds into a hundred-foot weed-devil. Monstrous clods of tangled, weathered foliage wound into the sky like spiraling flower petals—we stood transfixed next to auxiliary bathrooms while Freddie Mercury let us know that it was time to leave it all behind and face the truth.
In Socorro, New Mexico (Visit the Bosque del Apache!, See our Storm Water Pollution Prevention Plan!), we stopped at a diner. Walking through the doors stepped us back in time: weathered leather and wood, weathered leathery sun-seemed faces, greasy hats and caps on pegs. Dad and I both ordered the Carne Adovado and listened to local ranchers hotly debate the value of growing weed rather than corn. I don’t think the conversation or the food had changed in 50 years: fresh tortillas, savory meat, rich beans, and arguments on what to plant, when to plant it, when to harvest it, how much it’s worth.
On we went. Miles and miles of creosote, sage, a few stunted junipers. The earth whipped past in carpet colors of orange, blue, green, brown, tan, red, baked earth, baked sky-into-earth, baked humanity, baked life, hot rocks, hot roofs, hot stalks of feeble grain. Past Jornada Del Muerto—El Camino Real. The Journey of Death. The Royal Road. Past Trinity, the site of the first atomic test. We slipped through whirlwinds of dust and sage, atomic particles, ash.
4:00 or so and we ended up in the Gila National Forest somewhere around Kemp Mesa. We took a left at Beaver Lodge and headed toward Black Canyon. The transition from “in society” to “out there” passes by subtly, but takes the form of hard, straight forms muddling, softening, roads growing curves, curves turning into tree-blinded passageways. Passageways moving from paved, to dirt, to ruts and rock. We stopped to eye a small herd of mule deer, then a large herd of elk. One eyed us back: “you’re intruding.”
After discussion—camp near the airfield? Further down the road? Can anyone get here from there? Yes, of course, but other than us?—we set up near Wall Lake, slightly down the valley. Breeze blowing through the Ponderosas made everything aromatic, and, as the sun set across the pine-tops, the sky bloomed orange. I stood transfixed as light passed through layer upon layer of canopy. Just out from the city, from the airport, from work, from everyday email, seeing the light shift through needles felt like some sort of reshaping. Transfigurative.
Aldo Leopold drove this same route. He set it up, in fact. It was built to allow hunters access into the interior of the forest. To be fair, though, it was because of Leopold’s work that the Forest Service set aside over 500,000 acres as the Gila Wilderness. He later regretted the decision (the road, not the wilderness), but it’s hard to fault him for it today—his gift of access gets us into places we might never otherwise see. Though many, Ed Abbey and the organization grown, in part, from his work, Earth First! (both clear statement of action and long-running movement) among them, have long lamented our ability to transpose ourselves into otherwise inaccessible environments, on this trip it was hard to complain. It sets the tone, though. Leopold was always conflicted (that’s the short version), on the man/nature intersection/divide. And so, I think, are all of us, despite our protestations, who drive a car someplace to hike, who cut trees in one place and protect them in another, who use technology here, but forbid it there. We are human. We are conflict. We are conflicted, but we need nature. And each other.
Someone left a skull in the Pinion Pine near our campfire ring. We tuned up our mandos and played versions of Dueling Mandolins, Will the Circle Be Unbroken, Amazing Grace in the darkness while Dad drank Laphroaig. Elija Craig for me. Meatballs and rice somewhere along the way.
March 25
If you’re going to drink whisky on your first night out a few thousand feet above your regular elevation after travelling all day in the sun you should probably hydrate well. Especially if you get migraines. Lesson learned. I spent most of the night clutching my skull and wishing to sleep. If you’ve ever had a migraine, it was the kind where making a tent out of the blanket and hunching forward into the blowing heater every time it came on seemed like a good idea. Beats screaming. Dad finally woke up in the early morning hours and let me in to the truck where I had some meds. Got an hour or two at best, along with a really dry face. Woke to find my dad just quietly staring over me—just watching me sleep. It was beautiful, and something I’ll never forget. Thanks, Dad.
We found deer hoof prints in the soft soil of an old logging road behind camp, and great shaggy paw prints headed the same way. Could be a dog, but there are wolf around here too. I like to think that some relation of Leopold’s green-fire-eyed beast passed by in the night.
We figured we’d stay at this campsite until we were good and ready to go, then roll farther into the wilderness. In the meantime we dug a cat hole and tried not to fall in. For those of you unversed, this would be the morning toilet. I did not fall in. I did take a picture of the (unused) hole next to our camp shovel. I’ve later spent long hours working through what this says about amusement taken in the novel, when, for others, this is no novelty at all.
As Dad made breakfast, I thought about past days—computers, constant email, conferences, family, airplanes, headcolds, running, rushing around, and now no sounds but some flies buzzing around my meal. Distant wind in the piñon pines, the soft sizzle and pop of eggs and bacon.
We ultimately policed our trash and rolled down a series of switchbacks to set up camp in Lower Black Canyon, a stream rushing by in the background, a woodpecker’s trilling drum echoing off the surrounding hills. Dad made the last of the meatballs and rice for lunch as clouds and brilliant sun played across the ground.
I played a bit of mandolin while perched on the concrete picnic table at this site—necessary human intrusion to keep the designated camping areas clean, and to keep surrounding trees and fallen timber where they stand or fell. Too much concrete. Nice place to sit. The sound echoed out into the canyon.
It’s a good thing this area is beautiful. We realized earlier that we only had about a quarter tank of gas left. It could be a very abbreviated trip down into Silver City later. We might get to enjoy the sights while hiking for gasoline. We’re entirely off the grid here. No cell phones, no wi-fi. No service. Not much in the way of other people, either, though the occasional grumble of strong engines creeping up or down tight draws and rocky switchbacks let us know that we’d not need to go full survivalist should our gas leave us dry. I think both of us secretly hoped for a taste of that. I did, even knowing that, really, I don’t. But I did.
We took a hike (for pleasure, not gasoline) and ran out of trail some ways along the Gila River. GPS said 33° 10m 48s N by 108° 2m 59s W. No idea why we felt the need to check. We crossed from the Gila National Forest into the Gila Wilderness. Waded the river—refreshing to wash to my face and rinse my hair. Baptized in the wilderness. The whole way the sun shone on the river so that it ran like mercury.
Sometime during a break in last night’s music Dad told me more about my Papa Henry. The Mormon missionary to Wales. Turns out he was a mandolin player as well. He played a concert there and gave one on the ship coming back. Eight strings run in the blood. When I was an exchange student to the University of Swansea, many years back now, I took a trip to an area from where he’d sent a post card. Stood on the same pier, looking at the same church where Papa Henry once stood. I think we would have liked each other. I still play his violin, repaired by WM. Bissett in Los Angeles. 1892. I’ve had folks tell me I should lock it away. I keep it hung on the wall in my home office, and play it when the mood strikes, or when there’s a good campfire and a lubricated compatriot on guitar.
That night we drank cold beers in a quiet camp while the steaks marinated in olive oil, Worcestershire, soy, balsamic, spicy mustard, and pepper. (Marinate both steaks and diners well. Cook over high heat—the steaks—three to four minutes on the first side, two on the flip. Enjoy while listening to night birds.) In the distance a slow truck ground its way down the switchbacks.
The skeletal cottonwoods were just starting to bud red. A great flock of wild turkeys chuckled by to the West. At least ten strutting by along the river. These sounds can’t be replicated—can’t be achieved—anywhere but here. Our roads bring us here, give us access, but take away our unknowns. I can’t understand—cannot un-learn—why we must create access to everything that must ultimately die by our access. I cannot un-appreciate the access that allows me the ability to walk away from my daily 365 to get at something bigger.
I sat silent as the turkeys marched by.
March 26
Slept like the dead. Woke to the sun just kissing the tops of the surrounding mountains. Frost sparkled off dry grasses. Deer prints around the truck, as well as what could have been large coyote tracks. A fat robin stopped gathering seed to stare at me while Dad made coffee. Columbian mixed with Piñon. I hear Abbey’s Hayduke in the breeze: “Chemicals, chemicals, I need chemicals.” [i]
I think I’m right about that track I saw earlier—a sign near the outhouses indicated that this is a Mexican Wolf Reintroduction Area. Wolves are near. I’m used to it, but not literally. This is good to know. Even if that paw print belonged to somebody’s goofy Golden named Shelby, I’m still going to pretend. We need the idea of a wild. Reminded me of years earlier when, in Yellowstone, I saw a grizzly cub track. To this day my wife insists it was a child’s handprint in the mud by the stream. She’s right, but I’ll never shake the image of a bear cub tottering by and leaving that (permanent) impression.
Took a walk with Dad over coffee that made my ears stand up. What if we could get people to spend just a few minutes thinking more introspectively about themselves? “Do I need this, do I really even want this beyond this moment, will I want this six days, six weeks, six months, six years from now” might be enough of a heuristic to slightly alter our landscapes if we were really willing to give our answers seriously. If we were willing to alter our perception of need. I don’t need my yoga ball, my two guitars, my canned sparkling water, my ceramic T-Rex candle holder. I need shelter, sustenance, friendship. The others, not so much. But we’re human, too. That’s where things get complicated, and while we’re debating the subject don’t touch my T-Rex or my mandolin.
Deep thoughts. Right now—right then, I need(ed) bacon.
I drove most of that day, so took only a few quick notes over lunch. The roads were winding and exciting. Crossed a creek in Rocky Canyon easily a dozen times. Amazing drive, with lots of four-wheeled crawling. I was—and still am—conflicted. That we were driving through wilderness on roads planned by Leopold while discussing environmentalism was not lost on us.
We drove down toward Lake Roberts (a reservoir), then down into Silver City to refuel the truck and refill our water tanks. And to check into civilization for an hour—emails, phone calls, even some article editing for a special issue of a journal. There’s that technology loop—our jobs require technology, technology requires environmental destruction, I argue against environmental destruction, if I do my job perfectly (impossible, but pleasurable to think about) I end my own job. If I ever fully succeed I’m opening a restaurant on a beach somewhere, open when I feel like it, side-by-side with my small, locally-sourced wood working shop. Also open when I feel like it. One day, in a perfect world, I might serve you chargrilled, locally-caught something cooked on an open flame sourced from necessary wood clearing/cleaning served on plates I made with my own two hands.
We refilled the water tanks at the local ranger station, refueled the truck, then headed back up the road toward the Gila Cliff Dwellings and away from cell service, wi-fi, fast food. We were hoping to get to the dwellings, but a couple of hours out and already coming up on 5 pm, realized that plans change. Maybe Wild Horse Mesa instead. That’s half the fun of casual adventure travel. By this point we were conflicted in our discussions now as well. Wilderness! The beauty of the land and power of nature—but we’re modern (handicapped?) and can’t get there without help. And can’t stay there without abandoning responsibility. And, in many ways, can’t serve in our roles as educators about the natural world and the power of nature without simultaneously working in an environment which often—by simple participation in that culture—necessitates the continued abuse, or at least extreme use, of the very nature we hope to protect.
We ended up at Forks campground, perched high above the Gila River. When I first took these notes, I was on a cliff looking down at a very different river than the one we waded in, and jumped over, only the day before. It’s wide, moving rapidly, spanned by a solid bridge. We didn’t camp at Cliff Dwellings because the spots were small, close together. Crowded. Sure, we’re out of the wilderness a bit, somewhere between civilized and backwoods, but there’s no need to get all citified.
Somewhere along the way we noticed that we’re on some sort of official birding trail, so over the campfire later we tried to put together a list of what we’d seen so far:
- Cooper’s Hawk? Peregrine Falcon?
- Wild Turkeys—more than 20
- Chickadees
- Junkos
- Scrub Jays
- Robins
- Woodpeckers
- Flickers
- Crows
- A duck
- Herons
- A White-Breasted Nuthatch
- Two coveys of Quail—what a ruckus!
March 27
Excellent night filled with conversation and laughter. Dueling Mandolins again, and Dad played a great counterpoint to Friend of the Devil. Buffalo burgers and beer.
The sun rose on the canyon walls accompanied by the sound of the Gila rushing by below. Dad made coffee. This was the day we’d visit the cliff dwellings.
While the coffee brewed I took a short trail to an overlook. The Cottonwoods were blazing orange and yellow, the vibrant red giving way to more lively (playful?) colors. All around the air was filled with the burble of the Gila and bird calls—chirping, warbling, the raucous calls of a crow. It seemed fluid—alive.
It seemed strange, after being in a wilderness area, to see power poles lining the road like giant crosses. They run up the hills from Silver City to the Ranger Station at the cliff dwellings. On my right, rows of cliff defining “impermanence.” Greens, golds, and browns on top—trees and grasses, then crumbling brown and grey, a white line, more brown and grey, then grey green, chalk white, deep grey, a line of bright pink, more greys and blacks. An earthen rainbow cross-section. The stations of the body of the world, and all about us broken volcanic rock. No matter what we do, one day we’ll be a line of color.
Heavy thoughts before breakfast. Bacon.
On our way up the trail to the cliff dwellings we saw plenty of wild edibles in evidence, even around the well-traveled path. Wild carrot, nodding onion, watercress—instant salad in beautiful surroundings. To that, add dandelion, prickly pear, and piñion pine.
We made friends with one of the volunteer guides, Chuck, who was impressed with our attention to our surroundings. Most visitors apparently don’t really notice stuff like all the edibles. He showed us a lone Mexican Bat that had taken up residence in the caves. Had to wait for other groups to pass through, clear out. When we were alone he helped us see where the bat had secreted itself. It felt like a stolen moment. We were lucky to have his trust—he told us he didn’t show many folks, only those he thought would truly appreciate the sight, because he didn’t want to risk folks disturbing the bat.
We found it interesting to note that the dwellings were only occupied by the builders for 27 years or so, though the caves themselves have been intermittently occupied for thousands of years. Bizarre to feel caught between thousands of years of ghosts and tourists trying to get a good selfie.
I got a good selfie. I saw art created before folks of my descent colonized the land and changed everything.
We ate lunch near a trail head and found a cool little catch pool still full of water—and lots of mosquito larvae, beetles, and something small that looked like a mobile mustard seed. Then we hiked about six miles round trip up Little Bear Canyon. The moon hung huge in the sky the whole way, challenging the late afternoon heat.
As we finished our hike we came face to face with a group of Canyon Wren, who even gifted us with their haunting song, a descending, sliding, scale, with each note doubled, followed by a rising, upswept gasp. Beautiful little birds, with their sharp heads, banded tails, and brown/black mottling.
And then, at just around 4:30, down from the rains to pick up 35, then 152, then the highway home. Stepping away from the low moon a singing air to once again fuel our way onward, backward. Home.
We weren’t sure where we’d end up for the evening but landed at the upper end of Lake Roberts, a small, well-kempt campground, a few other folks around, but all calm and peaceful. On the drive down we came across a large herd—a pack?—of Peccaries. A passel of Peccaries—Javelinas, round, hearty wild pigs. A few were quite large, upward of a 100 or more pounds I’d guess. A couple of piglets ran along side.
We turned our leftover Buffalo patties into soup. Bean and Buffalo with sourdough bread. Great after a day of hiking: Ancient cliff dwellings, wild carrots, a Mexican bat, canyon wrens, and Peccaries. Mandolin songs echoed into the darkness.
March 28
We were up to a chilly morning filled with birdcalls. Coffee percolated. We saw a road runner, a large, proud crest on his head.
Homeward took us up over Emory Pass—windy roads through burned out territory. The fires of 2011–2012 burnt and blasted trees for miles. Ultimately good for the environment, important for the forest, but the devastation remains breathtaking. Erosion, flood signs. The cycle that begins when erosion control is immolated is impressive. And also necessary, though hard for colonists. Shouldn’t that always be the truth?
Down through Kingston (population 32 in 2010), then Hillsborough, Truth or Consequences, Socorro, back to Albuquerque. Back.
And the bars came back on our cell phones, and the email filled up. But the wildness still fills us. And, always a bit confused about what it means to love the wilderness in a world where our jobs ask us to touch plastic every day we walk away appreciating the power of the javalina, elk, wild turkey, and rushing stream. Of skulls and bones and blasted tree roots. Of Earth, and sky, and knowing that sometimes it really is time to leave it all behind and, though often conflicted, face the truth.
April 2020: Lessons
I started this essay by telling you that we’ve gotten older now, but on March 24, 2015, in celebration of his 70th birthday, and my 40th, Dad and I headed out of Albuquerque, New Mexico on 25 South. That was quite a few years ago, and I haven’t seen 25 South since then. Since then, the world has changed in ways most of us could never have predicted.
As I write this, we’re in a state of global crisis. The Novel Coronavirus, Covid-19, is reshaping the many ways we think about and interact with each other. It’s changing the way we interact with the world. There are lessons in this essay, though, that apply to us in the here in now.
Lesson 1: It’s never too late to go outside. We are always already changing our environment. Leopold knew this, you know this. But the outside—any outside—gives hope. Thoreau told us that, “in wildness is the preservation of the world.” I have always agreed, and have always been conflicted in finding that finding wildness in an increasingly modernized society means, often, acting against wildness. Driving a car. Building a road. Buying appropriate clothing. Working in a job which may not be in wildness’s best interests in order to afford the time and space to be in wildness. But, truly, “in wildness is the preservation of the world,” for we must preserve ourselves and each other, and that preservation means keeping each other safe and sane, and that means that there must always be an unknown, a blank spot on the map, a “here there be dragons” space, even conceptually, for us to wonder about and dream towards. So even if your wildness is a seedling coming through a crack in a sidewalk, go out and enjoy it, wonder what lies beneath that broken cement, and take a deep breath, center yourself, and think about the day when you might nourish other seedlings. Share the wildness you find with others.
Lesson 2: We should always already be troubling our relationship with the environment. As I write this, we are in a global pandemic where we are forced to shelter in place. To avoid travel. To keep our movements to a minimum. Interestingly, report after report after report tells us that global pollution levels are falling. The earth is, apparently, even vibrating less. We got sick, and the environment got better. We stopped moving, and the earth stopped shaking so much. There’s a lot of information there to unpack, and a lot of speculation to play with, but it’s rather inescapable to find that if millions upon millions of people all of a sudden stop travelling, our planet responds. In my essay, I noted that wildfires bring life. We can learn from this—destruction begets change. We’re smarter than we’ve often seemed to be. If we get anything out of this horror that helps us on our journeys to being better stewards of the earth, let us remember that our movements matter, and then trouble that notion every chance we get. Does that mean that we need to stop moving? I don’t think so. I hope not. As I hope my essay showed, I am nothing if not troubled about my relationship with the earth. I think it means that we need to think about how and why movement happens, though, then look for solutions that will keep helping the environment, for, (see Lesson 1) “in wildness is the preservation of the world.”
Lesson 3: Family matters. In “Four Changes,” printed in his Pulitzer-prize-winning collection, Turtle Island, Gary Snyder argues that change starts with us, in our heads,
knowing that we are the first human beings in history to have so much of [hu]man’s culture and previous experience available to our study, and being free enough of the weight of traditional cultures to seek out a larger identity; the first members of a civilized society since the Neolithic to wish to look clearly into the eyes of the wild and see our self-hood, our family, there. [ii]
Like many families, I think, sometimes my family isn’t always so good about staying in touch, sometimes we’re great. But, through it all, we are family, and we love each other, and, as family, we support each other, and we look to each other when life brings change. Love can be silent, but it does (sometimes) need to be seen. We need to look clearly into the eyes of the wild and see our family there—and, I think, sometimes we just need to look into the eyes of our family and see and be seen. These are troubled times. So reach out to your family, biological or found, and be seen, and see each other. Tell them you love them. We only get through this together, and that, I think, is a truth we can all face.
Take care of each other, and stay safe, and when the world is back to normal let it be a new normal that reflects any lessons we might have learned.
DGR April 10, 2020, Auburn, Alabama
Acknowledgements
This essay could not have been written without my amazing parents, Dr. Stephen T. Ross and Yvonne Y. Ross. I would be remiss here, though, if I did not also mention Luis T. Gutiérrez, Editor of Mother Pelican, who, for almost a decade now, has been a strong, capable, guiding voice in my writing.
Notes
[i] Abbey, E. (1999). The Monkey Wrench Gang. Salt Lake City, UT: Dream Garden Press, p. 267.
[ii] Snyder, G. (1974). Turtle Island. New York, NY: New Directions Publishing Corporation, p. 102.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Derek Ross received his Ph.D. in Technical Communication and Rhetoric from Texas Tech University, and is now Associate Professor of Technical and Professional Communication, Department of English, Auburn University, and Editor of Communication Design Quarterly. His current research interests include environment-related rhetoric in popular and modern culture, investigation of modern perceptions and use of commonplaces in environment-related rhetoric, and audience analysis techniques related to understanding perceptions of environment-related communication.
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