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Abbey SpeaksMay 4, 2004 Jean and I visited North America this weekend, driving south across the San Andreas fault in a rented anonymous economy car, hastening the end of the Age of Oil at 40+ miles per gallon. We retraced our old trail to Albuquerque as far as Kingman, Arizona, home to clouds of zapilotes floating lazily above the 19th century courthouse and jail, turning north at Flagstaff, into the desert, once again. The Bisti abides, as it has for centuries, weathering away in muted russets and tans, disturbed, momentarily, here and there, by the occasional hogan and disintegrating house trailer, criss-crossed with sheep trails, decorated with the slowly oxidizing remnants of modern automotive transportation. This normally arid land is drier still these days. Stock dams and recreational impoundments, the damn dams of the desert, are disappearing into thin air, evaporating so rapidly the fish have to line up at the campground hydrant for a drink. Res Foul is at the halfway mark, its bathtub ring wide and dark in the solar glare, docks and marinas cracking in the mid-day heat, a long, hot walk to the nearest water. We drove beside the electric railway that parallels Black Mesa, site of "Wham!... BLAM!... Thank you, ma'am;" the sheep-like line of railway cars plummeting into the abyss, the sudden silence, the startled buzzards. It's still there, a long line of vertical poles to the horizon, supporting the electric grid supplying coal-generated energy to the unit train, the parallel rails shining quietly in the sun, waiting the next load of ancient vegetative detritus traveling to its doom in the hated power plant at Page. In the distance, we see the gentle swoop of polished metal descending from the sacred rim of Black Mesa, conveying the guts ripped from Mother Earth across the highway to the waiting tower of Hayduke's explosive dreams. The conveyer belt does its patient job efficiently, 24 hours a day, unimpeded by monkeywrench or TNT, supplying the fuel that supplies the electricity to run the train to carry the coal to the waiting power plant to generate the electricity for the glaring obscenity of modern recreational excess beyond the horizon. No armor-clad shock troops guard this tender umbilicus, no hovering helicopters survey the scene from high above, no tanks, no missiles, none of the favorite toys of a fully-equipped and efficiently functioning police state guard this fragile technocratic mechanism loudly and visibly destroying the sacred mountain, displacing the wildlife, playing havoc with the natural habitat. And yet, inexplicably, the destruction continues, completely unopposed. Disappointed, we continued our journey northward, over Marsh Pass, blasting past Denehotso and Mexican Water in automotive comfort and security, the gaily colored scenery sliding easily by tinted windows. We crossed the San Juan and bumped into the sun-blasted hamlet of Bluff, sleeping quietly beneath its namesake. An attractive village, Bluff: beautiful scenery, the river nearby, the bluffs arranged esthetically on all horizons. But then, one would actually have to live there, far from the finer things of modern civilization: fresh vegetables, shopping malls, traffic tie-ups, good, inexpensive wine, human biodiversity. But then again... Blanding and Monticello greeted us with jingoistic displays of patriotic excess, resplendent in yellow plastic ribbons, tattered and sun-faded bunting, welcoming home some poor, unfortunate National Guard members who had been hoodwinked into killing dark-skinned strangers in deserts far, far away from home, in the name of American business "interests." "God Bless America" indeed! If there is a god, an assertion I see no reason to support, one would hope that he, or more likely she, is a most forgiving god who would be called on to bless such mortal sinners as the writers of ignorant and self-serving patriotic slogans. When I witness thousands of naive young men and women shipped thousands of miles from home to visit death and mayhem on innocent men, women and children, to further line the pockets of fatuous industrialists in their penthouse offices, I wish there really was a Hell for balding, overweight government bureaucrats to fry in for eternity. We followed our provided directions to the gathering of Ed Abbey fans at Pack Creek Ranch, Ken Sleight's home and the genesis of many an Abbeyesque adventure, fictional and allegedly factual. We greeted old friends, renewed acquaintances, made contacts for future rendezvous and listened to stirring speeches and uplifting music. Jack Loeffler's previously unheard recording of Ed's ruminations on things revolutionary was particularly inspiring. The event was short and meaningful for us, retiring early in the moonlit night, tucking away memories to be later recalled and cherished. Jack's reminder of Ed's most fervent interest throughout his life was most noteworthy, the only public mention of the word "anarchy" and the concept of anarchism throughout the evening. There were many much needed calls to action from those who know what action really means, yet little acknowledgement of the ultimate results of such action. Jack reminded us that Ed sought throughout his life to marry the concepts of anarchism and environmentalism, ultimately failing to fully illuminate his inner vision to his own satisfaction, due to the illness that cut his life short. Much work remains. Meanwhile in Moab, on the following morning, the sun leapt over the rimrock, finding us up and packing, on the road again, back to the Left Coast. On our drive north out of town, we passed lines of industrial earth moving equipment beneath frowning visages of red, crenellated ramparts, silent and still on a Morman Sunday morning, inexplicably intact, unmarred by congealing pools of motor oil, dripping hydraulic fluid, with crankcases untouched by lapping compound, fuel tanks unadulterated with Karo syrup. Federal highway moneys again poured over Arches, widening the road for more SUVs, motorhomes, and air-conditioned luxury automobiles. It was a monkeywrencher's wet dream, row upon row of stationary earthrapers, unguarded, patiently at rest, Comb's Wash in the metallic flesh, a scant fifteen miles from the largest concentration of monkeywrenchers, Abbeyweebers, ecoterrorists, and general curmudgeonly ne'er-do-wells in the world. This golden opportunity had survived the cloaking night, sparkling, pristine, untouched. Shaking our heads at the irony of it all, we drove silently northward. By good fortune rather than foresight, we chose a pathway home through some of the most magnificent geological displays on the North American continent. North and then west, across the Green, through the jagged sandstone teeth guarding the San Raphael Swell. We stopped at Ghost Rocks to relieve complaining bladders. As we slipped through the severed barbed wire fence ("Always cut fence. It's the code of the West.") to admire the vast panoramic vista, a satiny raven flew overhead, his, or her, feathers so black they left a dark streak in the brilliant blue sky. We chose the road less traveled, south along the east side of the Fishlake National Forest, following backwards along the Sevier River flowing north to its evaporative demise in the Great Salt Lake basin, through winding canyons of gnarled metamorphics, tidy farms and villages barely hanging on to the edge of economic survival. We crossed to the west through Cedar Breaks National Monument, stopping near the 9,900 foot summit for a breath-taking view of Zion National Park, thirty miles to the south, cloaked in drifting smoke from a Forest Service "management ignited fire," a controlled burn, mimicking Nature, if all went well, without compromising commercially harvestable timber. The mind boggles at the possibilities. Our path took us inevitably southwest, our road and our metallic steed pulled inexorably by the magnet of the greatest paean to the excesses of Western civilization, if that's what it is, the icon of cultural gigantism, the bunghole in the economic barrel of capitalism: Las Vegas. Sprawling among long dry playa lakes, Vegas grows constantly and unstoppably, totally devoid of the slightest sense of proportion, horribly inflated to absurd monstrosity by an unending flow of the green oil of commerce, never-ending greed and avalanches of avarice. The five lanes of Interstate Highway 15 entering and leaving the Magic Money Kingdom pulsed with vibrating corpuscles of automotive circulation north and south, connecting eager suckers from Salt Lake City to Los Angeles with the vortex that would soon relieve them of their all too disposable income. We scurried through the never-ending roadway construction of downtown Lost Wages, stopping 22 miles south in our flight at the tiny, two-casino town of Jean, Nevada, where we avoided the games of chance, grabbed a deservedly inexpensive meal and retired to our $25 room, unscathed and bemused. We're home now, safely back on the Pacific Plate, our trip to America a fantastic dream to be told around campfires to come, passed to generations of as yet unborn, of the days when people built pyramids of play, Eiffel Towers of greed, fantastic castles and fanciful dream mansions, fueled by oil, floating on credit, drifting to inevitable collapse in a world grown simultaneously colder and hotter on the fetid breath of a human world gone mad. The stories will be passed off as feverish dreams, until they see the crumbled ruins in the desert, awash in a sea of green pieces of paper blowing about languidly in the mid-day sun. Michael Lewis Leona Gulch Pacific Plate In the recent past... or future Early morning in Albuquerque: grackles sling their sibilant whistles through the cool morning air, a faint blue glow outlines the ridge of the Sandias to the east; most city streets are still quiet save for the unending rumble of the Big I, commerce on the move, early eager commuters starting their day. The sylvan moment is perturbed, disturbed by the sound of two internal combustion engines laboring to move two masses of dented, rusted and flapping sheet metal down the broad reach of Carlisle Avenue, six lanes of wide empty asphalt, quiescent in the morning gloom. The two aging automobiles move forward reluctantly on balding tires, their ungreased suspensions creaking in objection to their looming fate. Dimly seen through scratched and yellowed Safety Glass, the features of their drivers are further obscured by dark ski masks and unremarkable clothing, twisting the protesting steering wheels wildly to keep their noble charges roughly on coarse. The lead vehicle turns west on a side street, leaving a greasy blue smoke plume to mark its passage. It rolls to a stop across the broad entrance ramp of the empty parking lot. With a clacking shudder, creating a shower of rust and the loss of a small section of body panel, the engine grinds to a halt, wheezing, venting steam from a ravaged radiator, dripping precious bodily fluids onto the cool joinery of asphalt and cement. The second vehicle continues down the right lane of the broad concourse, finally pulling into a second entrance ramp, where it too expires in automotive misery, likewise staining the scarred pavement, likewise liberally decorating the surrounding landscape with rusted and superfluous auto parts. Momentarily, quiet returns. Two doors open with simultaneous squeals, two drivers decant and walk quickly around their charges. The immediate vicinity is soon redolent with the rubbery hiss of long-captive compressed air, now released to combine its molecules with decaying pavement, volatile organic hydrocarbons and the exhalations of long-dead authors. The morning calm is shattered by metal on metal insults as tools and supplies are deposited on the waiting pavement. The work begins. The snip of bolt cutters creates a quiet counterpoint to the clank of engine parts tossed over greasy shoulders. Chains rattle, padlocks clink firmly locked, dark oil drips languidly from gaping orifices. Dented metal cans slosh and gurgle in the quickening morning light, the smell of petroleum distillate wafts through the quiet air. Soon enough the time is at hand, the moment can no longer be postponed. Bright lights flare at either ends of the parking lot, followed quickly by two WUMPS! of suddenly oxidized petroleum products and the glare of two large fires brightens the morning pall. In the shadows beyond the glare, two dark figures make a hasty strategic exit on swift and silent bicycles. In the flickering glow of expiring automobiles, two signs are illuminated at the entrances of the large boxy establishment contained within:
Lobo Place East Mesa |