the complexity of trust

“To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.”
― George MacDonald

Ask anyone, and they will tell you a story, perhaps a few, about betrayal. There are many songs, movies, poems, and so on about betrayal. Yet, trust is at its core. Trust, the opposite of betrayal, is wrought with emotion, duty, and obligation. After all, isn’t it our humanity that compels us to trust? Is trust a basic human trait we cannot wrestle our way out of, or is it a moral fabrication?

At birth and through infancy, there is an ingrained bond between the child and caretaker that requires survival. As we move from that state of helplessness, we quickly learn that absolute protection and trust isn’t always guaranteed. At this point, trust can sometimes be a liability and the antithesis for survival. Knowing this, do we prepare ourselves in such a way to place our trust in ourselves? I would argue NO.

Society breeds dependence. Through the educational system, religion, and moral teaching, it is emphasized that trusting in someone (usually, the system or someone with greater power) is what we should strive for at all costs. The emphasis on trust extends itself to human relationships and social constructs, but leave out trust in oneself. It disregards the individual’s ability to navigate the world with a healthy dose of skepticism and the knowledge that everyone, in some way, will fall short of that trust.

We live within a paradox of being pushed to trust in what’s outside of ourselves, while simultaneously being pressured to get what we want. This is why we feel caught and disgruntled. You see this in broken marriages, those who are fed up with their political party, teens who rebel against their parents, and those who fall away from their religious beliefs because one of their leaders fell out of grace. I could go on.

I have examined the concept of trust at various angles and have resigned myself to the belief that complete obedience to trusting anything outside of yourself is self-sabotage. I can count the number of people I trusted in my life on one hand. This is because I got to know them well, and more important to that — I trusted them to be who they are, not what I wanted them to be. I trusted that they would be who they are, even the aspects of them that did not bode well with me.

Some people have faith and trust in something “higher” than themselves, such as God, a cause they can support, or a creative calling. Some people have learned to trust their own common sense, intelligence, or inner knowing, and leave it at that. These people who have found trust in something that would not falter are often the most content with the world.

My trust has been tested and rebuilt over time and experience. Some of this process has been excruciating. Lessons learned. I have also found that the more a person desires happiness through external things, the less trustworthy they are. The greater the self-interest, the less likely they are to garner real trust.

I have found my trust in something that cannot be betrayed or misguided. It is that *power* that has kept me going through the worst points in my life. It is that comfort I found as a child, wandering through the forest and fields. It is ever-present and does not require me to believe or not. It is in the trees, my breath, the beating heart of everything.

It speaks to me and tells me I will be alright, whether my heart breaks or I fear this direction the world of humans embrace. There is nothing that can corrode this faith. I trust this intuition at all costs and lean into it.

To trust humans…That’s the tricky thing. To paraphrase Hemingway, the only way to know if you can really trust someone, is to trust them. I am afraid that’s the truth. And so we jump into it, hoping for the best.

Another Flight

When I walk in the woods, I am lost in my own time. Out of time, or out of step, I walk with wonder. The roots of my heart bend down to meet creek beds. I listen to the mountain jays, those old friends sounding off the hours. I lose track of myself and my desires, as sand wiped free of tracks. There is nothing and no one, and there is much relief in that.

Occasionally, ravens pull at my hair. I watch another oak leaf fall. Walking with a kind of wonder is magic. I have seen twigs turn into instruments, ants fly backwards, and sometimes I could swear there are whispers from tree stumps. I see the pale moths, lovely nymphs of forgotten ancestors. My family is here, this wild bunch of travelers like me.

Did you ever get lost following a butterfly? A trove of blue butterflies, Celastrina echo, lift upward in the wind, driven madly to scatter. There is a need to be out of view, out of the picture. I come here to disappear back to my old solitude. It’s a friendly place. I have no regrets about my lack of social ties, but for all purposes, I have my connection to the land and there is a friend to be found everywhere. That is, if you don’t limit your concept to human friendships. Fellow woodland wanderers understand.

The other side of despair is transformation. After weeks of hopeless sadness, the angel of change is upon me. Coming here, I face the truth of myself — the knee-deep, baptismal truth. It is a matter of time, after such a submergence, when one can come to the surface again. Heaven and earth are one and the same, they just blend to the curve of our beliefs. We wait it out, and whatever it is we need to surrender to also waits for us.

Living on Less

Traveling light is in my DNA. This is why I am about to go on my 22nd purge of belongings. There’s something about leaving behind piles of non-essentials that I delight in. Never much of a pack rat, I like the freedom of just picking up and going, not worrying about someone watching my valuables, watering my plants, or gathering up my credit card bills for the things piled in my house.

Over the past week I have been living out of a large day pack. My sole possessions are in this pack, along with a bag for my laptop and camera (both are essential technologies, although I recognize that a person can certainly live a full life without them). Basically, I own clothing, toiletries, and tech. Everything else has been left to donation boxes, friends, and collateral damage from break-ups. There were times I didn’t exactly plan to lose things, but it happened to be the way it ended up. No love lost. I scantly recall what I even owned.

There are so many things to delight in without possessing them. I love plants, of course, but enjoy them growing wild. I love art, but I am satisfied seeing it at museums or galleries, or on the walls of friends’ places. One of my cherished possessions at one time was a painting of a black horse. Interestingly, I happened to see a wild horse of the same coal-black hue galloping through the underbrush of a mesquite bosque near where I camp. There’s art everywhere, poetry in movement, music in the sound of water.

You might think I am being too extreme to live an austere life. Yes, there are times I miss having my collection of tea pots, plants, cozy quilts, and other fun, comforting items, but when I think about the absolute ease of moving around, I wouldn’t wish it all back. My life is in my experiences. Home truly is in the love you feel when you occupy a favorite place and interact with a cherished friend.

Traveling light takes patience. It means less about convenience and security and more about whimsy and wonder. It means less time cleaning and maintaining and more time tending relationships and honoring time, the limited time we have on this planet.

“Desire to possess nothing in order to arrive at being everything.” St. John of the Cross

The Christian Mystics wrote of eliminating the needs of the world in pursuit of a greater connection to God. This spiritual thirst is something that drives me to seek that connection. As a woman of modernity, I’ll admit that search for the sacred is hard. There are so many distractions that keep is locked in a profane chase for people, places, and things. It is no surprise we have the enormous task of tackling addiction, neuroses, mental illness, a general malaise of modernity. In having, we are always in a state of wanting. We are in a state of comparison, of wondering if we made the right decisions or have the right make-up to achieve what we see others achieve.

There are days I get caught up in fear and worry about my future. If I don’t have a prescribed lifestyle, will I survive? Then I remind myself that today I have enough. Today is the extent of what I have in front of me. As I write this, crowds of blue butterflies congregate on a still puddle in the middle of an unknown forest road. What a shame to give myself over to worry when wonder appears in all forms and in all ways. Miracles.

The Deliberate Path of Gila Monster

I dream of monsters. Reptiles who crawl into my slumber, I yearn for the teachings, for their company. Over the past month, I have seen an uncanny number of Gila monsters on my hikes. They’ve (almost mysteriously) appeared in my path and have sparked a curiosity in me to learn more about them.

The most obvious of reptiles, the Gila monster is one of the few lizards that are venomous. Of course, unlike rattlesnakes I have encountered, who are quick to strike, Gila monsters are meandering creatures. They are reluctant to interact and simply want to continue on their way. They are passive. You’d have to put your hand under their mouth to get them to attack, or else try to pick them up.

What I know of Gila monsters is that they want to get where they are going with a deliberate intention about them. They’re focused and intent, going about their business under the hot morning sun – a true desert soul.

The Basics of the Gila Monster

The Gila monster, Heloderma suspectum, is a venomous reptile who’s native to the Southwestern United States and Northwestern Mexico. They range in length between 10-14 inches and weigh approximately 4 pounds. Their distinct markings of orange (sometimes appearing pink or yellow) and black patterned beads (not scales) cannot be missed. One of the showiest of lizards, they are beautiful by all accounts.

Their bite contains a powerful neurotoxin that causes necrosis (death of the tissues) in the unfortunate victim. The quintessential hermit, they spend most of their time in burrows (95% of the year) and emerge only to warm themselves in the sun and seek out other species’ eggs, their primary diet. Because of their body composition (mostly fat), Gila monsters can live for a year on about 3-4 meals.

Symbolism of Gila Monster

There is much mythology and folklore about the Gila monster. I don’t wish to get into these stories, however, since they are not mine to own. I also think we do a disservice to the species who appear before us with something to say by consulting Madame Esoteric’s Guide to Animal Totems, or what have you.

The patterns of the Gila monster are especially intriguing. There is no mistaking these creatures, with their blazed orange and black – maybe a warning to stay away from them. I gather, though, that they stand out because they are animals of authenticity. There is no denying who they are. They are their authentic selves.

This asks a question…Am I being my true nature, or do I throw up a facade? Can I be this real, bold, and authentic in my life?

Gila monster is a master of survival, an original preservationist, as they can go without food for months. This species presents the lesson of living life within one’s means, of conserving resources and energy, whether that be your time, emotional or mental health, or finances.

Am I guarding my health, resources, emotions? Or am I releasing them foolishly, without thought of the future?

This elusive monster spends the majority of their time underground. Guarded from the intensity of the summer months and possible predators, Gila monsters show us that going under is life-preserving. Burrowing beneath the earth, there is power in finding respite, a place to dream and emerge stronger. Gila monster tells us to pay attention to our dreams and to find shelter, whether it is within one’s body or the physical world.

In my own interpretation of the Gila monster, I am called to heed the warning of giving too freely of my resources. I should focus on my true nature and what I am called to do. To keep my decisions on a critical plane, where all options are before me.

Walking with Gila monster is a call to watch my ass. Where am I in danger, or at risk of losing what I need to survive? It’s not a cry of paranoia, but one of good sense and self-protection.

I adore this amazing species, who has grown on me over the past few years. The Gila monster is an emblem of home, the Sonoran desert. A slow pace and careful judgement are how you survive in a tough terrain of limited food, water, and cool shelter. Gila monster is the god of true survival, where only those who are deliberate in action and purpose thrive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patience and Silence in the Kofa Mountains

As with any expedition, I had plans. I had expectations to see the bighorn sheep that inhabit the rugged, austere Kofa National Wildlife Refuge. There is something about expectations that lead us to …elsewhere. I wanted to see them. Having spent days wandering the Basin & Range areas of the Southwest over the past 11 years, I never spotted them.

It’s good to have goals. That is what compels me to spend nights in the desert freezing my ass off and days, getting burnt by the sun. Still, being fixated on an outcome lends itself to inevitable disappointment.

What I did experience was something else. The difficulty of traversing the range made me realize the limits of my body and the courage of my resolve. I climbed up into those volcanic crags hoping for something that never arrived. The answer might be patience. My pain and frustration was a demonstration in surrender.

To paraphrase Annie Dillard, any good hike will do. The more arduous the terrain, the more determined I was to continue on. It wasn’t a smart decision. I could have lost my footing. There are endless possibilities. What I did find is the stark answer that I am not any more entitled to what I want than the next animal.

On the rocks, I watched clouds and the agave and brittlebush that shift in the wind. Spectacular sights are random. They are miracles in their accidental nature. A woman who spends 24 hours alone in the wilderness is not deserving of miracles. Things appear with time, patience, and silence. Gifts arrive when the receiver is most open to them.

 

Devoted to Place

Verde River, A. Sato

Do you know what it means to love a place as family? To feel its presence course through your veins? This living land whose life depends on remaining natural…can you be devoted to its care? To know it intimately, like the lines on your hand or your grandmother’s quilt?

As a longtime roamer, I have struggled with settling into a home base. It is much to my chagrin that I have been in Phoenix for over 11 years now. I never thought I would stay past the first turbulent year. Yet, I remain.

Vulture – A. Sato

But being rooted to a place has its demands. When I walk along the Verde River and see trash or the spur trails of ATV destruction, my heart aches. What is it about our kind that relishes violence? Trashing nature is an act of violence and greed thrives on this. Still, what can I do to help ease this ache?

Devotion to Place

To be devoted to place means laying my head down at night knowing that there is a place to pray for. It means gathering my tools and taking action. The call of the land is something I hear when I feel defeated by this culture. It calls me to awaken to my true spirit and rise up with the energy and passion to fight for the Wild’s survival.

Devoting oneself to a place isn’t hard. It is simply starting a journey of understanding, of forming a relationship, as you would any relationship. I have found my devotion grow stronger when I …

• Learn about the local flora and fauna, including identifying native vs. invasive plants, tracks and scats, and local wildlife species
• Start a nature journal where I write about, sketch, and paint the landscape
• Use maps and GPS to learn the local mountain ranges and topography
• Bring several trash bags to pick up garbage any time I am on a walkabout
• Spend at least a few nights each month camping, listening to the sounds of the night and watching the stars glimmer above
• Practice Leave No Trace principles when hiking and camping
• Organize a habitat restoration with the Forest Service, nonprofit, or other agency
• Gather like-minded friends to meet together in allegiance to the land, discussing ways to better protect it

Tonto National Forest – Multiple trails

There are many ways to go deeper into the practice of devotion to the land. Like any holy undertaking, it requires practice, commitment, and openness to the process. Working with nature is a spiritual act, one of which I cannot live without. My hope is to return this love through the practical art of devotion.

 

A Quiet Place

Bending to drink / A. Sato

There are many distractions. Everything wants us, from the screens to the friends we have yet to call back, to the traffic honking, to the lists of endless things we have to do. This life can overwhelm us in every single instant.

Then, there is stillness. If we allow it to be.

Each morning I ask if I want the quiet. It is really my choice. If I allow the stillness, what will it ask from me?

Launch / A. Sato

A story is told as much by silence as by speech.

— Susan Griffin

Bee and wild raspberry / A. Sato

Our minds, as well as our bodies, have need of the out-of-doors. Our spirits, too, need simple things, elemental things, the sun and the wind and the rain, moonlight and starlight, sunrise and mist and mossy forest trails, the perfumes of dawn and the smell of fresh-turned earth and the ancient music of wind among the trees.

— Edwin Way Teale

Cabbage White / A. Sato

I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright.

— Henry David Thoreau

Come away / A. Sato

What you encounter, recognize or discover depends to a large degree on the quality of your approach. Many of the ancient cultures practiced careful rituals of approach. An encounter of depth and spirit was preceded by careful preparation.

When we approach with reverence, great things decide to approach us. Our real life comes to the surface and its light awakens the concealed beauty in things. When we walk on the earth with reverence, beauty will decide to trust us. The rushed heart and arrogant mind lack the gentleness and patience to enter that embrace.

― John O’Donohue, Beauty: The Invisible Embrace

Small host / A. Sato

At a certain point, you say to the woods, to the sea, to the mountains, the world, Now I am ready. Now I will stop and be wholly attentive. You empty yourself and wait, listening. After a time you hear it: there is nothing there. There is nothing but those things only, those created objects, discrete, growing or holding, or swaying, being rained on or raining, held, flooding or ebbing, standing, or spread. You feel the world’s word as a tension, a hum, a single chorused note everywhere the same. This is it: this hum is the silence. Nature does utter a peep – just this one. The birds and insects, the meadows and swamps and rivers and stones and mountains and clouds: they all do it; they all don’t do it. There is a vibrancy to the silence, a suppression, as if someone were gagging the world. But you wait, you give your life’s length to listening, and nothing happens. The ice rolls up, the ice rolls back, and still that single note obtains. The tension, or lack of it, is intolerable. The silence is not actually suppression: instead, it is all there is.

― Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters

 

At the table / A. Sato

Observing sacred mind in nature’s creativity can help us to reconnect to our own sacred mind as well. It releases a deep knowing that we inhabit a world rich with meaning—an ebbing and flowing ocean of intentionality that creates complex relationships between beautiful forms.

― Julie J. Morley, Future Sacred: The Connected Creativity of Nature

Underworld / A. Sato

Who would deduce the dragonfly from the larva, the iris from the bud, the lawyer from the infant? …We are all shape-shifters and magical reinventors. Life is really a plural noun, a caravan of selves.

― Diane Ackerman

Darner / A. Sato

Why are we such tortured human beings, with tears in our eyes and false laughter on our lips? If you could walk alone among those hills or in the woods or along the long, white, bleached sands, in that solitude you would know what meditation is. The ecstasy of solitude comes when you are not frightened to be alone no longer belonging to the world or attached to anything. Then, like that dawn that came up this morning, it comes silently, and makes a golden path in the very stillness, which was at the beginning, which is now, and which will be always there.

― Jiddu Krishnamurti, Meditations

Wild chick / A. Sato

Away from the tumult of motor and mill

I want to be care-free;

I want to be still!

I’m weary of doing things; weary ofwords

I want to be one with the blossoms

and birds.

― Edgar A. Guest

Corridor / A. Sato

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Circling Dragonflies

Such is life. Detours must be made and straight lines lead nowhere. My friend and I decided we would find a waterfall. That was on the itinerary, but like most itineraries, they are subject to change and the change can be anyone’s guess. Change just is.

This was a planned trip to look for a specific waterfall in Rim country with my friend, T. We were both ready to escape the city and the bullshit of “the human world” and all of its trappings – including our fixation on work and *shoulds*. Off to the hills and mountains, away with the paperwork! I could almost hear myself internally breaking into bloom as we ascended to junipers, then pine, after leaving the paradise of the upland Sonoran ecotone.

Loaded up with gummy bears and deep thoughts, we grabbed our packs and began walking along a long forest road (up Colcord Mountain, near Payson, AZ). After a few minutes, my friend brought up the strange crackling from above. We were amazed to find many cicadas lined up the arms of pine, oak, and underbrush, shedding their skins, as they were, to emerge and reproduce. Such a cacophony, the armored symphony of these Hemiptera.

There is nothing of absolute silence, even when you think there is. Underground and on land reverberations occur – life moves in the small measurement of time and space. It may be undetected by the human ear, as we are woefully unable to hear the inconspicuous acoustics of all that is.

 

Photo credit: T. Clark

Photo credit: T. Clark

Photo credit: T. Clark

What did we do when we couldn’t find this waterfall? First, we walked, trusting the journey would be what it would be. By staying alert, aware, and receptive, we saw what was glimpse-moments, and appreciated. After all, the subtleties are true gifts and we were grateful for them.

And so we walked again, as two friends who are capable of the spontaneity of not knowing. As two friends who appreciate the peace of silence, as not to disrupt the flow of whatever it is we were doing at the time.

Finally, we wandered to a new build site along the forest road and asked a local. He gave us detailed directions. Locals have a way of being receptive to just “shooting the shit.” It’s nice to have this relaxed way of engaging with strangers. Sometimes small talk can be big talk full of joy, curiosity, and wisdom, if a person allows it. The slow chit-chat of a rural place. I miss that syrup-speed on a hot day, along a random road.

Did we ever find this waterway? No. How can a single green gate be so elusive, especially when everyone else seemed to find it off of the main road. It was laughable. We did three attempts, and decided that this waterfall was not meant to be seen by us, at least not that day. What was awaiting us?

Haigler Creek is one of my favorite go-to day dreaming, loafing around places. I can spend hours listening to the birds and the creek, and the occasional kid with their fisher dad at one of the bridges upstream. The day was warm enough to walk down the creek and away from other people and cars (although, to our delight, it was pretty low key). We crossed the creek and made our way through dappled cottonwoods, water-worn rocks with their patterned ripples and smooth curves, and canyon walls.

A wonderful species of dragonfly – Antillean Saddlebags, Tramea insularis – danced around us as we waded along the overgrown banks. This fiery-purple species was new to me and had me wondering why the hell I haven’t ever learned more about dragonflies and damselflies and their whimsical ilk. I’m always fascinated by anything winged and ancient looking, and this fantastic species had me tripping and slipping over the rocks to get a closer look, before they zipped away, circling their peers.

Golden Columbine, Rocky Mountain Iris, Sand Verbena, Lupine, and various daisies and asters lined the water in lush bouquets. Painted Lady and Empress Leilia butterflies delighted in them. The steep banks of red quartzite and limestone offer several steps and ledges to the juniper hills above the canyon, should you decide that wading wasn’t probable.

For me, I love to splash and swim, and meander clumsily in water. The watery world continues to leave me wanting more, to wade into the understory of riparian trees and grasses and find the faeries. Instead, I come back to earth and the human world.

Photo credit: T. Clark

Photo credit: T. Clark

Photo credit: T. Clark

My companion and I spent our last hour sitting on the bank, examining wood and crayfish skeletons, moon-like drops of water on sedge. I thought of Emerson:

“To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same fields, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again.”

Never finding the falls was a gift. Being detoured is the delight of the patient and openhearted. There is always something to experience and be delighted by to the trained eye and attuned ear.

Stories That Have Been Denied

via Stories That Have Been Denied

Lions In Hell: A Passion for Hells Canyon

Night Falls, A. Sato

There is a small wilderness area that most people do not know, a hidden wilderness that receives minimal curiosity from the normal hiking crowd. It is comprised of jagged rock and deep washes, wild burros and javelinas. It is also a place of archaic sites, an historic resort, and former ranches. This place is Hells Canyon Wilderness.

Hells Canyon has many appeals to me and some of them are, I confess, of the spiritual nature. It was one of the first wilderness areas I traversed back in 2010, when I was employed with the Arizona Wilderness Coalition. It was then I was first exposed to the need for wilderness protection and the incredible blessing we have in this state, with over 90 designated wilderness areas.

I spent many a night under the stars in Hells Canyon. Believe it or not, one of the coldest nights of my camping history (and I have winter camped before in the Midwest) was a night in January with a friend. It must have been that we camped next to a wash, where the cold air and moisture made a sort of frigid “lid” over us, but I woke to a frozen water bottle in my tent and frost everywhere.

Cold morning along Burro Flats Loop

 

Other times I fell in love with this place was when I crossed through the heart of the Wilderness, down Garfias Wash, with all of the riparian wonders of many desert streams. Garfias Wash makes a natural divide between east and west, spilling out onto Castle Creek, not too far from the historic Castle Hot Springs Resort. For those who love old architecture of the late nineteenth century, this is a rare gem. The former resort used to provide a getaway for the rich and famous who wanted to reap the benefits of hot springs and is now open as a high-end resort (also for the rich, with its 1400$ rooms).

The Hieroglyphics is of the few places in central Arizona that I have seen pictographs, which is a very special sight as they are uncommon around here. For the protection of the sites, I am not linking to or describing any of these. You will just have to wander/wonder.

A. Sato

Aside from the history, what’s most meaningful to me about Hells Canyon is the feeling of a Great Spirit(s) here. I’ve been hiking alone and have felt the presence of a watcher. No, I am not delusional. I had to double-check my tracks and look behind me, but I could have sworn there were things watching me that were much more than the wildlife. Call it a feeling of reverence, for those of you who are scoffing atheists. That could very well be, but I could have sworn…

I’ve wandered down through Burro Flats to find a javelina head on the trail. It must have been some hunter’s idea of fun. Through Little Hells Gate, numerous javelina crowd in to emerge themselves in water from a nearby spring. There appears to be enough to keep wildlife hydrated through the intensity of summer.

Javelina, A. Sato

As much as I love those crazy peccaries, I come here for lions.

I’ve sat quietly in my favorite mountain line cave and looked out across the flats below. Evidence of their presence is in their scat, mostly, which is aplenty in a few rock shelters and washes, but I’ve found the occasional soft paw step in the sand, or in the dirt after a heavy rain.

I’ve monitored mountain lion movement here and through the Wickenburg and Weaver Mountains, where there is intense call to kill them. Arizona Game and Fish have an additional bag number for cats in this region over the usual 1-per tag allowance. This is mostly in response to pressure from hunting groups who want the bighorns and other ungulates to themselves. Then there’s the growing expanse of shitty pop-up homes that gaudily line what’s known as the suburbs, former wilderness and habitat of mountain lions and other species.

Of course, predators get the blame for a decline in prey species, without thought to actual factors like habitat loss, noise pollution, increased roadway kills, invasive species, disrupted travel corridors, and on and on, and oh, the damned trophy hunters too.

A. Sato

The idea that we can manage nature is blatantly self-centered, human-centric and also just wrong. Rarely do our attempts to manage succeed, except when we point to a usual natural process  and call it resource management success, like reintroducing predators to former areas that were once their home and realizing that they actually help the ecosystem thrive. Go figure. A “win” for science when nature is just doing what it does.

Back to lions…they are here. I wonder if the mystical force I feel while walking are the watchful eyes of pumas, rather than floating orbs of the spiritlands. I am open to either.

Their scat tells me that they subsist mostly on javelina and smaller game and less so on deer. I have yet to see a mule deer in the ‘Gliphics. I have seen more burros in this region than deer, and that’s a shame. As much as I love burros and dislike said management styles to control them, their impact on vegetation and wildlife is clear. Cattle, too.

Burros, A. Sato

At a recent job interview, they asked me what animal I would most like to be and I said a mountain lion without pause. It’s seems like a popular answer, how much we desire to be great, sexy predators, and yet, fear and loathe them when they wander into our backyards.

They asked me why. I said how much I admire their need for space to roam, their solitary nature, their graceful silence, and their strength. I left the interview wondering what they thought about that and whether I’d get a call back.

Wild One, A. Sato

One of my favorite trails in Hells Canyon is Burro Flats Loop. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone on this trail, and the trail log shows that perhaps one or two visit here every two months and usually that’s the BLM.

This winter I made the (happy) mistake of going to the Wilderness after it snowed. If you have ever been on Castle Hot Springs Rd, you go down through a creek, up steep hills, and around sharp curves, which is all fine when it is dry…but wet, not so much.

Sliding my way down the road and to an even worse road, I made my way to the trail, covered in mud. Outside the air was still a metallic chill as I looked out over the Bradshaws and Weavers covered in snow. It was beautiful and silent, so still I couldn’t even hear the birds.

Winter day in Hells Canyon

Walking through the Flats, I scared up a posse of coyotes who were out on their morning hunt. Cattle grazing and burros have had their impact on the namesake flats, but the steepness of the jagged Hieroglyphics make for a great wonderland of bighorn and puma. Unfortunately, the sheep are scarce, if not nonexistent, here.

Hells Canyon Wilderness gets overlooked because of its small size and foreboding volcanic landscape, but I can expect to see more wild species for that simple reason. Phoenix hikers prefer other popular wildernesses, and tend to leave Hells Canyon, Tres Alamos, Arrastra, and other less glamorous wilderness areas alone.

 

As for me, I’m committed to the underdog. I go to Hell to find my own form of heaven, resting in the sharp outline of volcanic mountains, rumbling up through the washes with Gila Monster dreams and hopes of deer and bighorn sheep.

That faithful watcher in the perimeter is my Muse. Or maybe I am its? Whatever the case, there is a spirit of wildness here that is undeniable, that grabs my attention and leaves me with a heartbreak each time I must leave and return to Phoenix.

I pledge to lions in Hells Canyon over any nation. And where I stand is among the refugees of real home.