"Rocks. Piles of them. Into the fingers of emptiness, spirits seep. The void of life rushes in, the non-voices, echoing into the caverns. Wind, rustling leaves, covers no tracks and footprints from months gone by lead down winding paths that peter into the fingers of emptiness."
It's been a long time since I have been to the desert -- I mean really been to the desert. Scrambled up rocks piles, leapt like a kid. And gotten the fear. The fear of getting lost, the desert closing in. Peaceful sounds become foreboding, a harsh reminder of just how desolate it is out there and how distinctly nature isn't on your side. It can all go terribly wrong in an instant.
But the desert holds a majesty, a beauty, that is unlike any other terrain I have visited. And perhaps its the emptiness that creates a breeding ground for the spirits that give the desert its power.
I saw a mountain. I saw a trail along a ridge. And I kind of had to run it. A quick 3-mile out and back, 1,000 feet up and at some elevation, but the weather was mild, the wind gentle and after a mile of huffing, I settled into a brisk pace and forgot that I was climbing. When up becomes flat, you can really fly.