“It is a commonplace of all religious thought, even the most primitive, that the man seeking visions and insight must go apart from his fellows and love for a time in the wilderness.”
Loren Eisley
My first trip of the season didn’t go as planned. I was to join an overlanding group event. The meeting went well. I saw a few people that I knew and talked to others. The drive was slow and dusty; but that’s to be expected in the desert. The campsite however was much too windy, too crowded, and too noisy. This was not a location I would choose–especially knowing that there was a lovely place just a few miles away. So, I fixed dinner, packed up, and drove to a campsite I had used last year.
The sun had set by the time I reached the site. I set up camp in the fading light. Clouds built in the western sky, barely visible against the falling darkness. Soon, the wind increased, and the thunder rolled. As I worked, a raven passed by fighting the wind, struggling to reach its mate calling from the nearby pines. As the storm worked its way closer, coyotes howled from the sagebrush. This is why I make the effort to come out here—to experience a small part of the pure energy of a wild desert night. This makes me happy.
I kindled a small fire and poured myself a cold Ninkasi stout. Then with my feet propped on the rocks of the fire ring, I watched lightning flash in the approaching clouds and counted the seconds to the sounds of thunder.
Why count? I suppose it’s to know, but maybe not, habit… I’ve been a scientist for most of my life. That phase is coming to a close. I’m at a crossroads, examining options.
I thought about my experience leaving academia. After seven years, I admitted I didn’t have the personality for the Ivory Tower. But it was a hard decision. I had dreamed of the life Loren Eisley used to craft The Night Country. A life of theory and thought, practiced in the dark hours of cold winter nights, surrounded by old books housed in dark wooden cabinets. It was not to be; times had changed. Or maybe, I just got truthful about who I am.
I recalled one grad student who came to me for a statistical review. He wanted my blessing on aggregating his data to show an effect to bolster his biases. I discouraged him from his aggregation scheme and suggested another, to no avail. He published six papers on various aggregations of the data, none of the conclusions supported by the raw data. He graduated, got a good academic position, and is successful in his pursuits. Probably still publishing results based on personal bias.
Years after he had graduated another student, confessed that he had made a transcription error in a derivation in his PhD dissertation—he reversed the sign of a coefficient. Correcting this error would have meant rewriting his entire dissertation, reversing conclusions, and disappointing his advisor—so he let it go. He graduated, found a very nice position, and, from all appearances, is successful in his pursuits.
And there are others…
I can sit by the fire, with lightning crashing all around, secure in the knowledge that I have followed the data. I didn’t always like where it led, but I followed it none the less. When conclusions were ambiguous, I put the data back on the shelf and collected more. That’s science—many questions, few answers. Well, few answers of any real value.
I rarely considered how much an act of faith is the scientific method. Faith that we live in a universe ordered by comprehensible effects. Faith that the accumulation of data and theory can lead to understanding of the world in such a way as to make reliable predictions—in other words, truth. Most of the time my faith is a fleeting motion in the corner of my eye. I don’t really see it—but it’s always there.
Periodically the wind would slow and I could hear the repetitive calls of a saw-whet owl. Calls that make the desert forest seem so quiet. Then the wind would return, replacing owl calls with the whistling of junipers. Stray gusts whipped the campfire flames low over the desert sand drawing their heat away from my feet; constant change in a long-term pattern.
In a few hours, storm clouds had coalesced over me, lightning illuminating the sky in all directions. A light rain interrupted my thoughts and I retreated into my truck. This too is contentment.
I awoke early. The dampness of last night’s rain had soaked into the sand and the wind had moved on. It was a calm, clear morning.
I briefly considered returning to the group, but after indulging in my solitary ruminations I was primed for more seclusion. So off into the desert I drove.
This spring the Oregon desert has seen a great deal of rain. Formerly dry lakes now hold water; some for the first time in decades. Roads the I have driven in the past, are flooded and those that aren’t are, in places, muddy and slick.
I stuck to the main roads winding my way west to Crack in the Ground. The road was flooded so I backtracked east and found a road north to a set of juniper covered buttes. Here, I set up camp.
In this area camped the cattlemen, and perhaps the Numu before them. I found this rock stove in a sheltered location with a wonderful view. I’m sure that this stove was built within the last 100 years–probably by a hunter.
But perhaps a cattleman. I could imagine them gathering here after a day’s work tending cattle on the plains below. They could look out over their herds in the distance while sheltering in the juniper forest.
In the afternoon, I listened to the bluebirds sing and an occasional raven’s call. I did a bit of reading, some writing, and lots of cloud watching. I showered in the afternoon sun, washing off the dust of the long drive and drying quickly in the desert air. Time passed swiftly. In late afternoon I noticed storm clouds gathering. It wasn’t long until they covered the sky and the temperature fell. As the rain started, I sheltered my camping gear and retreated to the shelter of my truck.
Once again, lightning filled the sky and thunder echoed from adjacent buttes. This time the raindrops were fat with water and accompanied by one-third inch hail. Rain and hail pounded down for over an hour. The ground was white with ice, and rain filled all the depressions in the sandy ground.
I used the time to write down some ideas for another story. They are more ramblings than plots. Not yet even the germ of a story. I’ll read them in a month and see if I can sift something from them.
Just before dark there was a break in the storm which I used to fix a quick broccoli and mushroom noodle dinner.
Then the storm returned with some spectacular lightning but little rain. I extracted the following from a GoPro video I shot. At least in this configuration, the GoPro is not as light sensitive as the Nikon, but I rather like the effect of the sky lit by lightning.
The next morning the ground was very wet. I wanted to photograph the sagebrush in bloom around Cracker Lake with morning light. However, the road to Cracker Lake was flooded. So, I decided to make an early exit. On the way back to the highway, I passed a couple pronghorn and was able to get a quick photograph with my kit lens, a nice way to end my trip.
Sadly with the rain, I was unable to find any scorpions on this trip. I’ll have to save that treat for a future visit.