Feb. 08, 2007 - 19:07 MST

A RETREAT

Reading in today's paper about efforts afoot to get Colorado pension fund to pull out of any funding to or for businesses who deal with Sudan, and reading an eyewitness commentary by Heidi McGinness, humanitarian and retired Denver minister, who has been to Darfur three times has sickened me to the utmost.

Therefore I shall take my Magic Carpet and fly to my Outlook on Hurricane Mesa, going back in time to when things were a bit more settled. Going back into a nice, warm, peaceful summer.

I worked on the test track there once, I assume the track is no longer in operation, I haven't been there for many years.

Turning north from the little town of Virgin, Utah, I take the road up, along one of the spines of the Mesa. One of those twisty, turny, white knuckle roads perched on a narrow ridge for a great part of the way up. Two thousand feet above the valley floor is where the old test track resides.

I have built an imaginary cabin on the west edge of the Mesa, where I can see microscopic traffic along Interstate 15 barely visible and totally inaudible from the Outlook. I can sit on the edge with a good pair of binoculars and look over to Silver Reef where once a huge deposit of silver was found and mined long ago.

I sit in the sun on the edge, breathing in the precious coniferous air which braces me to the max. Listening to the breeze through the needles of those trees, watching a deer not too far off grazing and keeping an eye on me.

I have just been to an old camp site of long ago Indians where once flint arrowheads and knives were made. There is a midden of chips there, other traces have long ago disappeared. But the the spirits are there and they speak to me in whispers.

This evening I shall sit on the edge of the rim which overlooks the road from Zion to Hurricane, feeling the warm breeze as day edges into night. The warm breeze brings scents of the desert below, as auto lights come on below. A trail of red lights coupled with a similar one of white lights mark the modern trail once navigated by Mormon folk and their teams. An uncanny coupling of the old and the new it strikes me.

Before I went up I stopped at the little restaurant at the side of the road before the turnout to have a bite and hear the news (which was practically non-existent, a death or two and news of young folks from the area moving to the big towns), picked up my dog who was living with a friend in Virgin and headed up to my beloved Outlook.

Being that I came back in a time-skewed way, some of the old things still existed and functioned, the pumping station on the Virgin River kept the ponds and water brakes filled, had a nice dip in the warm waters of the big pond.

Much of my time is spent in peaceful meditation and pleasant thoughts, sending loving vibes across our land to those in trouble and woe. I can do little else, monetarily or physically, but do the best I can with what I have.

I have a cot outside the cabin that has a small tarp over it to shed trash from the birds and the almost impossible rain storm, but will take the tarp off tonight, pull up the covers, lay on my back and lose myself in the mysteries of the universe, seeing the stars which seem so close to me that perhaps if I stretched a bit I could touch one of them. But the unobtainable is fascinating too. They are there and I am here at the Outlook, even so though -- we are so close together.

I shall spend some time trying to figure out how to make amends to those I hurt in my alcoholic fugue of a number of years ago. Some of those persons have died, some have moved away out of my ken, many I have already made my apologies and amends. But there are still a few and my heart yearns to even the score and at least let them know that I am deeply sorry for my former actions. Sort of a grim line of thought, but up here I am peace enough to comtemplate what things I should do, for my sake and theirs.

Then in the early morn on the western edge of the Mesa a few steps from my cabin I shall sit in my camp "lazy boy" type seat and let my memories take me my first memories all the way up to the present day. Having a few cups of coffee and a somewhat late lunch.

I will go down to Hurricane and see what is new and then to St. George, a town that Brigham Young founded. A lot of history there to poke around in, a few books to read about the area and its history I will pick up. Ones I haven't yet read. Then maybe to Snow's Canyon to marvel at the rock formations and such. And of course, north - above the town I shall wander where the early settlers picnicked, and some of the men carved names and initials in the soft sandstone there. I have rubbed shoulders with the spirits there too.

There is much low grade petrified wood on the mesa, and some of it had been used to edge fire pits it appears to me. I shall visit the petroglyphs again on the road from Hurricane Mesa up to Upper Smith Mesa which is a bit above Hurricane Mesa. On the old maps Hurricane Mesa is shown and Lower Smith Mesa.

Then perhaps I shall go down and take the road which leads to the territory where some of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was filmed, still wild looking but with fences and barbed wire which doesn't destroy the view of the weird rocks in surreal formations.

But after a few days of rest and relaxation I shall board my Magic Carpet and fly back to Denver, all rested and refreshed and quite happy returning home after A RETREAT . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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