A lonesome wind stirs up the dust of a thousand years of broken dreams. With it comes the whisperings of a thousand more promises yet to be realized. A thousand more promises yet to be broken and left in the swirling dust. It is a wind that started blowing one night long ago. It grew into maturity over the Pacific, feeding off of exotic islands and desolate stretches of abandoned ocean. As it grew, it licked moisture from the whitecaps cruising towards that distant shore. As with any popular movement, as it made landfall, some of its bluster diminished. But the mass moved on, singular in its intent. Purposefully it bonded with its brothers high in the Sierras. Slowly it grew and grew. As it ever deliberately moved across the water, into the mountains, and across the desert— its character built. It smelt like raw iron and electric energy. It certainly contained both. It is neither dry nor moist. It could tell tales of the hula or the Muir Spruce. It could share the secrets of man's meaning or the riddle of our plain existence. But it is not interested. It is not interested in reliving tales known since its birth. It is not interested in rehashing fairytales of a wayward youth. It is bent on running free. The nascent force is looking to carve its own path in the annals of man. It is focused on breaking the barriers of the mountains ahead. It is determined to reach the valley floor and to flow without impedance. It is focused as a singular entity to destroy or give birth according to its own choosing.
With its wispy fingers it tickles the bones of long dead Indian warriors. Its feathered fingers give breathe to old wives tales of ghosts and warning told around camp fires. The wind starts high above the valley floor, in the mountains toward the sea. Like a wild beast storing energy for the winter, it patiently builds up strength as it passes from the ocean to the desert. When it finally breaks through the surrounding mountains, it swoops down into the valley plateau with a cold pent up fury. Like a woman scorned, it waits for the moment when the world does not expect its wrath to come forth. It rushes down over the alluvial fans, carving as it flows. Many of the unenlightened flee its path. Those who are unknowing shudder as it seeps under closed doors and disrupts their complacency of mediocrity. Despite its ferocity, it is welcomed by the valley. As it rushes across the hot parched floor, it scrubs and cleanses. For those awake to its power, it is a longed for foe.
At the first sign of the coming wind, long-eared jack rabbits scamper for the safety of the burrows. With wide black eyes shining from their burrows, they survey the impending onrush. The sly fox looks about him for the evenings diner. Ears alert and eyes ready, he watches life below him take cover. Hearing the wind beckoning like a forgotten lover, the fox picks up his pace. A round-tail warily eyes the fox as he scurries to his hole. She wonders what the hurry is. Soon she too will know. The sidewinder zig-zags to his burrow with another year's fresh rattle in tow. Its forked member tastes the changing air as it slithers. A spiny chuckwalla grunts between two rocks, still warm from the winter sun. He lazily absorbs what little warmth the rocks provide and waits. The building gusts signal the coming of a buffet for him in only a few short weeks. Banded geckos chase each other over rusty boulders. Too caught up in their play, they ignore the activities around them. Their attention will be grabbed shortly.
Dried frail stalks of Blue Canterbury Bells shiver in anticipation. Infant buds of white Blazing Stars wrap themselves tighter in their cocoons. Desert Five Spots wearily awaken from the summer's slumber. Lupine, Dandelion, and sour Brittlebush push roots into the ground and fight against the hard-flowing wind. Those who find purchase in the 11th hour will reward the world with an incredible shower of color in the months to come. Sharp-edge yuccas grip the earth. Their dull spears barely move in the blowing air. Beneath the surface, their tenacious roots claw against the rock and sand of the desert bowels. The aged Joshua Tree feels its beard tickled by the gale. Its limbs stretch upward to receive the faint moisture carried by the wispy fingers of the wind. To some, it is a dark throated wind indeed. To others an alarm clock of promise.
* * *
On a deserted plateau far from the chem toilets and RVs of Hidden Valley camp ground, a lonely butte rises from the valley floor. Out of earshot from the flying machines of the Marine base, it rises. Separated from the myths and mistakes of the commercial experience, it rises. Worlds away from usage fees and green-stripped ranger trucks it rises. Unexplored by anyone of importance it rises. Unnamed and unfound on any modern map, it rises up from the valley floor. Tucked into the wilderness itself, it has stood undisturbed for eons. It is a lonely butte insignificant from any of the other lonely buttes in this side of the park. It is this insignificance that makes it so remarkable. It is this insignificance that in time will make this barren piece of rock incredibly significant. It was, as a matter of consequence, chosen simply because of its solitude and insignificance. It is its solitude and insignificance that marks its memory.
On that dusty piece of rock, a camp fire smolders. The blackened remains of a weeks worth of dead timber fills the small fire circle. A few small stones, blackened by the weeks smoke, circle the embers. Barely identifiable footprints lead away from the smoky ashes. The shoe prints are small. The stride is most diligent. They, along with the charred rocks surrounding the dying fire, are the only traces of human interference on this desolate mesa. In time, the elements will reclaim the desolation. The wind will scatter the ash and erase the footprints. The desert will reclaim what is hers. By the end of the season, nothing will remain here to signal a human presence. The physical evidence will be scattered and untraceable. The story however of this deserted plateau far from the chem toilets and RVs of the Hidden Valley will live on for quite some time.
* * *
"Ranger 1, Ranger 1, come in. Ranger 1 this is base, come in. You out there Ranger 1? Over."
"Go ahead base, this is Ranger 1. Over."
"Uh yah Tom, what's your six? Over."
"I am heading down the wash road, should be back in Cottonwood in about twenty. You're not getting cold feet about tonight's poker game are you?"
"Cold feet about taking your paycheck home with me, not at all! Listen Tom we need you to swing by the Spring campground before you call it a day. We have a couple hikers just got back from the backcountry talking about a dead body someplace off of Eagle Mountain. Swing down and check it out on your way back to base. Over"
"Seriously Base? I am already an hour past my quitting time. Over"
"Sorry about that Tom but you are the only truck we have coming back to Cottonwood. Its probably nothing though. Just some sun stroked hippies who believe the Gram Parsons story a little too much. Over"
"Roger that Base, on my way. Hey don't drink all the cold beer hunh, and make sure you bring your wallet tonight. Ranger 1 out."
* * *
The light in the old Airstream trailer was still on. It cast an eerie glow in the dust eddies skirting around the desert floor. Sounds of men laughing bounced across the dry air. The old white SUV ground to a halt outside of the trailer. Its dusty tires left deep ruts in the dry driveway. Slowly the weary driver turned off the ignition. The engine sputtered and grunted before turning off. The AM radio slowly faded into the ether before announcing that night's Dodger's score. The voices from inside grew quiet. After a moment the door to the trailer opened and a hatless head poked out.
"Hey Tom, that you? Where'd did you get off to? Its been more then three hours since you headed down to the camp at Cottonwood Spring. We thought you were gonna skip out on the cards tonight."
"Come on out here Sam, we need to talk."
"What is it Tom, those hippies send you on a wild goose chase all over the park for nothing? Just another one of their bad trips hunh? Screw that Parson bastard! Why don't need this headache season after season right?"
"Sam I think we got trouble."
"It wasn't just a rumor, the dead body and all?"
"Don't look like that at all. The hikers brought this back with them."
The light from the trailer bounced and shimmered off an object in the ranger's hand. Slowly he let it drop from his fingers. Two flat pieces of dull aluminum attached to a beaded chain fell into the darkness.
"Whatchya got there Tom?"
"Have a look yourself sir."
"Are those dogtags Tom?"
"Yup sure are," replied Tom a his slow southern drawl, "The hikers took them from the body. It looks like this is for real."
"Well if the dog tags belong to the body, we know for sure its not Gram. Anybody we know?"
"Yup, sure is…"
"Gimme a minute to get my hat. Does Ranger 1 still have gas in her?"
"Un-hunh, she sure does. A little bit anyhow."
"Warm her up, I'll grab the boys and I'll radio 29 Palms. Maybe we can get one of them spare choppers for a retrieval. God it is gonna be a cold night."
"Well at least you get to keep your paycheck this week sir."
Its a young Coppola or Tarantino in the making..., ummm hmmm.
