Post by Senbecc on Mar 9, 2007 22:17:38 GMT -5
"Looks like we’ve got company." Sharkbait pointed with his walking stick at the ground ahead of him. I looked to the white gravelly sand of the wash we hiked without breaking my stride. Human prints. "They look fresh," I said.
The light was still good. The sun, though low, had not yet set. No clouds marred the chances of capturing the near-full moon. The heat had long crested, though it still hovered in the 90’s.
"Real fresh," Sharkbait agreed. "Walking alone, and I suspect he’s left-handed." I did a double take, blinked at the impressions in the sand, glanced anxiously at my companions, Sharkbait and Mason. They suspected nothing.
"See?" Sharkbait continued. "The round plug next to the foot prints. He’s got a walking stick, and it’s landing on the left-hand side."
"You’ll have to translate for me."
I steered us away from the footprints. I thought how fortuitous it was that I hadn't brought my walking stick. It would have been a sure tip off.
We walked along the wash, tracking the unwelcome guest on our sweltering desert hike, climbing gently toward Indian Hill, west of the Dos Cabezas railroad tower in the far southeastern corner of Southern California’s Anza Borrego Desert State Park, working towards the Shaman’s Cave. We came out of the wash, and toiled through a maze of cholla cactus before reaching a vague trail close to Indian Hill. At the foot of the hill, we passed two large stones that Mason studied silently as we walked past them.
At a set of morteros – ancient grinding holes in bedrock – we climbed into the cathedral hill, and we unloaded photographic gear on the ledge before the cave. Bracketed by boulders on the ledge, we took a break and stretched out on the still-hot rock.
We had a grand view of the little valley to the southeast and the Jacumba Mountains beyond. The silence was inevitable, and good. The first stars began to blossom in the still blue sky, furtive little buds of light. The slightest breeze stirred through our perch. I looked back into the cave, into the darkness that hid the multi-colored artwork inside—mysterious symbols and creatures in yellows and blacks, red and oranges that were vibrant, alive, ancient. Hopeful.
I had studied these markings for hours, contemplating them. Their meaning is lost to eternity, the culture that created them blotted out, but like all real art, they evoke emotions. The petroglyphs over in Davies Valley, crude, mean, disturbing, images reserved for nightmares, haunt me. I look at them and ponder the thin line between genius and lunacy. The petroglyphs seem unhinged.
The drawings in Shaman’s Cave, however, make me feel like a child back in school. The joy of life, the mysteries ahead to be learned, the confidence of a bright future, whatever it might be, faith in family, church and country. These are the impressions I get from the bright artwork in the Shaman’s Cave. There is nothing evil, dark or threatening there. Not to me.
I sighed. The desert sighed, and beckoned. Shadows melted into each other until there was nothing but shadows, and then even the shadow makers, the ocotillo and barrel and cholla cacti, were consumed by the darkness. The stars grew stronger, no longer fragile blossoms, but crystals of color, powerful, commanding. The little valley, though murky, still had a lacework of sand and plants that seemed both delicate and mighty. Powerful medicine. The strength of the desert night filled me with its calm quiet energy. It is a potent place, Shaman’s Cave.
Finally, we pulled ourselves away from the meditation of the gloom, photographed the cave with multiple light sources and different cameras, films and formats. Though his second time there, Mason had never seen the pictographs in the cave.
"They're magnificent, aren't they?" Sharkbait murmured.
"Let me spray some obscenities on the rocks and we can talk about my style," Mason countered as he adjusted his lens, "because that’s what they look like to me."
When the moon came up, a telescopic lens replaced the wide angle. Diverse exposures and angles were applied as the gold-tinged orb hung low on the horizon. "Just short of full," Mason commented as he looked down into the viewer of the Rollei.
"Ninety-two percent full," I said. "The full moon was Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, according to my computer program."
"I prefer this," Mason said, although he didn’t say why.
I wanted to go out on the full moon. I modified my work schedule so nobody would miss me. Originally, Mason agreed. Then he couldn’t change his schedule, and he said the weather report talked about it being overcast, and that Sharkbait wanted to go, but couldn’t get off work either, and that we’d end up going on Saturday anyway, and with the price of gas the way it was...
"Forget about Tuesday," I finally told him over the phone. "Let’s concentrate on Saturday."
The hours slipped away, and though we were exhausted, I didn’t want to leave. The calm, intoxicating power seduced me. I wanted to stay, to lie down and sleep here. The thought filled me with peaceful joy. It was one o’clock in the morning.
The photographic gear went into packs that got hoisted to our backs, and we started off. "We’re out of the rocks, guys. Shut off the lights," Mason urged. "We don’t need them."
He was right. The moon was rising over the still warm land. It’s cool azure light drained away all the other colors of the terrain. The sand and cactus and the tumbled boulders that piled suddenly up to Indian Hill glowed with the light of the moon. We started threading our way through the labyrinth of cactus. As we passed the two giant rounded boulders at the end of the hill, I saw Mason’s eyes study them. He smiled with what looked like relief. Ocotilla, cholla and Mormon tea in patches choked our route. Mason looked back toward those boulders.
"What were you searching for, Cowboy?" Mason asked, motioning back toward Indian Hill. "Back at that Cave. What’s it got on you?"
I smiled with what I hoped was disarming mirth.
"In the Old Testament, young men dream dreams, old men see visions," I said. "I don't know what young men do today, but old men sort, collate and file." My smile faded. "I’d dearly love to see some visions."
Mason snorted and shook his head.
"Well, you’re in the right place, but you want the wrong thing."
I didn't answer.
"Didn’t read much Carlos Castanadas, did you, Cowboy?"
"Tried once, back in college," I answered. "Bored me."
Mason nodded knowingly. "The last time we came here, I wasn’t prepared. I just didn’t think about where we were going."
"What are you talking about?"
"A Shaman’s Cave. A Place of Power. I just wasn’t prepared, and then, without even thinking, I came with different eyes."
"Earth to Mason," I said. "Oh, wait a minute..." I looked around at the otherworldly landscape, sand and hill glowing, with patchwork shadows hiding crevices and crannies stuffed with mystery, an alternate reality. I motioned to Mason. "Go...go on. Explain."
"Don Juan talked about looking through different eyes," Mason said as we picked our way through the cholla. "It’s an exercise, to observe without seeing, to know the world in another way. To see through different eyes."
"To accomplish what?"
"To gather power." He adjusted his glasses. "Remember walking down the railroad track? And with these new stupid bifocal glasses, without even thinking about it, I was seeing down without looking down, trying to avoid tripping on the ties, trying to step on them without seeing them."
I frowned in confusion. I remembered walking on the ties, changing my gait to keep my balance, a cadence out of sync. Mason acted oddly after that, resentful, fearful, until we got back to camp.
When I located the cave, in the dark, he didn’t even bother coming up to see what I had found. "It dawned on me where we were going, when we got to the Communal Cave, and I knew, right there, in the dark, I knew the path to the Shaman’s Cave." He looked at me, square in the face. "So did you."
We walked silently for a while. I glanced furtively around me. The ground was flat and open, the cactus garden labyrinth only knee high. I saw no cougar.
"Remember how I looked all around the Communal Cave, the morteros, the caves above it?" Mason started again. "I wanted so badly to find something that would satisfy you, so we could go back, so we wouldn’t go to this Shaman’s place."
We’d gone much further west this time, avoiding the thick field of cholla that we’d come through getting there.
‘You weren't, of course, sated," Mason said. He turned, pointed to Indian Hill while walking backwards. "And when we went through those two boulders, it was like passing through some portal in reality. Remember when you guys went up the hill, and I said I was going on? I hoped you’d find something there that would make you happy, and when I came across that one set of morteros, I knew the cave was there. I went a little further. The ground starts dropping off right there, a real radical ditch, and I suddenly felt like I was passing out through the other side of that portal. I walked all the way back to the boulders and passed through, and I started calling you guys. I called twice, but you didn’t answer. And I suddenly thought, maybe we weren’t all together, in the same place anymore."
See the rest here:
www.desertusa.com/mag00/dec/stories/cave.html
The light was still good. The sun, though low, had not yet set. No clouds marred the chances of capturing the near-full moon. The heat had long crested, though it still hovered in the 90’s.
"Real fresh," Sharkbait agreed. "Walking alone, and I suspect he’s left-handed." I did a double take, blinked at the impressions in the sand, glanced anxiously at my companions, Sharkbait and Mason. They suspected nothing.
"See?" Sharkbait continued. "The round plug next to the foot prints. He’s got a walking stick, and it’s landing on the left-hand side."
"You’ll have to translate for me."
I steered us away from the footprints. I thought how fortuitous it was that I hadn't brought my walking stick. It would have been a sure tip off.
We walked along the wash, tracking the unwelcome guest on our sweltering desert hike, climbing gently toward Indian Hill, west of the Dos Cabezas railroad tower in the far southeastern corner of Southern California’s Anza Borrego Desert State Park, working towards the Shaman’s Cave. We came out of the wash, and toiled through a maze of cholla cactus before reaching a vague trail close to Indian Hill. At the foot of the hill, we passed two large stones that Mason studied silently as we walked past them.
At a set of morteros – ancient grinding holes in bedrock – we climbed into the cathedral hill, and we unloaded photographic gear on the ledge before the cave. Bracketed by boulders on the ledge, we took a break and stretched out on the still-hot rock.
We had a grand view of the little valley to the southeast and the Jacumba Mountains beyond. The silence was inevitable, and good. The first stars began to blossom in the still blue sky, furtive little buds of light. The slightest breeze stirred through our perch. I looked back into the cave, into the darkness that hid the multi-colored artwork inside—mysterious symbols and creatures in yellows and blacks, red and oranges that were vibrant, alive, ancient. Hopeful.
I had studied these markings for hours, contemplating them. Their meaning is lost to eternity, the culture that created them blotted out, but like all real art, they evoke emotions. The petroglyphs over in Davies Valley, crude, mean, disturbing, images reserved for nightmares, haunt me. I look at them and ponder the thin line between genius and lunacy. The petroglyphs seem unhinged.
The drawings in Shaman’s Cave, however, make me feel like a child back in school. The joy of life, the mysteries ahead to be learned, the confidence of a bright future, whatever it might be, faith in family, church and country. These are the impressions I get from the bright artwork in the Shaman’s Cave. There is nothing evil, dark or threatening there. Not to me.
[img src="http://www.desertusa.com/mag00/dec/stories/photos/cave_03.jpg
"]I sighed. The desert sighed, and beckoned. Shadows melted into each other until there was nothing but shadows, and then even the shadow makers, the ocotillo and barrel and cholla cacti, were consumed by the darkness. The stars grew stronger, no longer fragile blossoms, but crystals of color, powerful, commanding. The little valley, though murky, still had a lacework of sand and plants that seemed both delicate and mighty. Powerful medicine. The strength of the desert night filled me with its calm quiet energy. It is a potent place, Shaman’s Cave.
Finally, we pulled ourselves away from the meditation of the gloom, photographed the cave with multiple light sources and different cameras, films and formats. Though his second time there, Mason had never seen the pictographs in the cave.
"They're magnificent, aren't they?" Sharkbait murmured.
"Let me spray some obscenities on the rocks and we can talk about my style," Mason countered as he adjusted his lens, "because that’s what they look like to me."
When the moon came up, a telescopic lens replaced the wide angle. Diverse exposures and angles were applied as the gold-tinged orb hung low on the horizon. "Just short of full," Mason commented as he looked down into the viewer of the Rollei.
"Ninety-two percent full," I said. "The full moon was Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, according to my computer program."
"I prefer this," Mason said, although he didn’t say why.
I wanted to go out on the full moon. I modified my work schedule so nobody would miss me. Originally, Mason agreed. Then he couldn’t change his schedule, and he said the weather report talked about it being overcast, and that Sharkbait wanted to go, but couldn’t get off work either, and that we’d end up going on Saturday anyway, and with the price of gas the way it was...
"Forget about Tuesday," I finally told him over the phone. "Let’s concentrate on Saturday."
The hours slipped away, and though we were exhausted, I didn’t want to leave. The calm, intoxicating power seduced me. I wanted to stay, to lie down and sleep here. The thought filled me with peaceful joy. It was one o’clock in the morning.
The photographic gear went into packs that got hoisted to our backs, and we started off. "We’re out of the rocks, guys. Shut off the lights," Mason urged. "We don’t need them."
He was right. The moon was rising over the still warm land. It’s cool azure light drained away all the other colors of the terrain. The sand and cactus and the tumbled boulders that piled suddenly up to Indian Hill glowed with the light of the moon. We started threading our way through the labyrinth of cactus. As we passed the two giant rounded boulders at the end of the hill, I saw Mason’s eyes study them. He smiled with what looked like relief. Ocotilla, cholla and Mormon tea in patches choked our route. Mason looked back toward those boulders.
"What were you searching for, Cowboy?" Mason asked, motioning back toward Indian Hill. "Back at that Cave. What’s it got on you?"
I smiled with what I hoped was disarming mirth.
"In the Old Testament, young men dream dreams, old men see visions," I said. "I don't know what young men do today, but old men sort, collate and file." My smile faded. "I’d dearly love to see some visions."
Mason snorted and shook his head.
"Well, you’re in the right place, but you want the wrong thing."
I didn't answer.
"Didn’t read much Carlos Castanadas, did you, Cowboy?"
"Tried once, back in college," I answered. "Bored me."
Mason nodded knowingly. "The last time we came here, I wasn’t prepared. I just didn’t think about where we were going."
"What are you talking about?"
"A Shaman’s Cave. A Place of Power. I just wasn’t prepared, and then, without even thinking, I came with different eyes."
"Earth to Mason," I said. "Oh, wait a minute..." I looked around at the otherworldly landscape, sand and hill glowing, with patchwork shadows hiding crevices and crannies stuffed with mystery, an alternate reality. I motioned to Mason. "Go...go on. Explain."
"Don Juan talked about looking through different eyes," Mason said as we picked our way through the cholla. "It’s an exercise, to observe without seeing, to know the world in another way. To see through different eyes."
"To accomplish what?"
"To gather power." He adjusted his glasses. "Remember walking down the railroad track? And with these new stupid bifocal glasses, without even thinking about it, I was seeing down without looking down, trying to avoid tripping on the ties, trying to step on them without seeing them."
I frowned in confusion. I remembered walking on the ties, changing my gait to keep my balance, a cadence out of sync. Mason acted oddly after that, resentful, fearful, until we got back to camp.
When I located the cave, in the dark, he didn’t even bother coming up to see what I had found. "It dawned on me where we were going, when we got to the Communal Cave, and I knew, right there, in the dark, I knew the path to the Shaman’s Cave." He looked at me, square in the face. "So did you."
We walked silently for a while. I glanced furtively around me. The ground was flat and open, the cactus garden labyrinth only knee high. I saw no cougar.
"Remember how I looked all around the Communal Cave, the morteros, the caves above it?" Mason started again. "I wanted so badly to find something that would satisfy you, so we could go back, so we wouldn’t go to this Shaman’s place."
We’d gone much further west this time, avoiding the thick field of cholla that we’d come through getting there.
‘You weren't, of course, sated," Mason said. He turned, pointed to Indian Hill while walking backwards. "And when we went through those two boulders, it was like passing through some portal in reality. Remember when you guys went up the hill, and I said I was going on? I hoped you’d find something there that would make you happy, and when I came across that one set of morteros, I knew the cave was there. I went a little further. The ground starts dropping off right there, a real radical ditch, and I suddenly felt like I was passing out through the other side of that portal. I walked all the way back to the boulders and passed through, and I started calling you guys. I called twice, but you didn’t answer. And I suddenly thought, maybe we weren’t all together, in the same place anymore."
See the rest here:
www.desertusa.com/mag00/dec/stories/cave.html