Halfway up another beaten granite corrugation, another Nevada moon-scrape, I pass an odd Forest Service sign-- "Entering Toiyabe National Forest". Naturally I anticipate trees. The road goes higher, the engine strains. Still no trees. But I trust the Forest Service; surely I'll spot a juniper near the summit. Candidates approach on the bleak granite-- forms and lumps, which turn out to be more bleak granite. Still climbing-- 6000 feet, 6500.... Could this wind-ravaged, forlorn mountain ever taste a warm day? I've crawled west on Highway 6 for days. I stray onto Nevada's bereft corrugations, where I might settle down some day.
But where is that advertised National Forest? Where are the trees? In my drizzled youth they were unstoppable-- they even grew through concrete. I expect too much. Still though, at least one tree seems a prerequisite to the title of "forest".... Still climbing-- 7000 feet now, summit ahead. I see only more bleak granite. Some sort of Forest Service swindle is afoot.
It is only two more beaten corrugations to Tonopah, where everyone stops because they're exhausted. After the silver mines expired, that is Tonopah's economy-- exhaustion. The town sits halfway between Reno and Vegas, and no one makes that drive properly in one shot. I stop for an eventful beer at a saloon next to a crumbling historic hotel. I want someone to explain why they choose to live here, on bleak granite. The guy next to me has a theory-- something about inner peace. "When I leave town, I want to leave town. Seriously. When I'm out there, I don't want to see another human, especially some gun-toting Forest Service goon asking for a goddamned permit".
He goes on.... "I looked around, believe me. This place is two-hundred miles from anything. The nearest National Park is on the other side of the state, and I hope it stays that way...." He sounds familiar now. He's traversed my favorite roads. He's vexed at the sight of other humans in stark desert majesty, incensed by rules and fences which defile the realm. He is my mirror image. He sits next to me and preaches, on his bleak granite, in this exhausted saloon. It might be a nudge. It might be time to go home.
(edited for grammar, clarity, etc.)
Trees
- stilltrucking
- Posts: 20607
- Joined: October 24th, 2004, 12:29 pm
- Location: Oz or somepLace like Kansas
- stilltrucking
- Posts: 20607
- Joined: October 24th, 2004, 12:29 pm
- Location: Oz or somepLace like Kansas
I got the metafiscal metaphysical blues again.
The Seventh Solitude,
The Seventh Solitude : Metaphysical Homelessness in Kierkegaard, Dostoevsky, and Nietzsche
I suppose home for me all ways comes down to boots on the ground,
These days it has come down as a senior citizens housing complex. I suppose my metaphysical home is the Ocean, or at least the boundary where water meets land.
If I could afford an RV that would we the best wheel estate I could have.
Click to englarge
Have you ever read Blue Highways? by William Least Heat Moon
http://www.amazon.com/gp/reader/0316353 ... eader-page
The Seventh Solitude,
The Seventh Solitude : Metaphysical Homelessness in Kierkegaard, Dostoevsky, and Nietzsche
I suppose home for me all ways comes down to boots on the ground,
These days it has come down as a senior citizens housing complex. I suppose my metaphysical home is the Ocean, or at least the boundary where water meets land.
If I could afford an RV that would we the best wheel estate I could have.
Click to englarge
Have you ever read Blue Highways? by William Least Heat Moon
http://www.amazon.com/gp/reader/0316353 ... eader-page
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