The Juxtaposed Perspectives of Desolation

Dana Leavitt

Pissed off, a little tired, and reeking of wet dog. We had been in a car for five days now. We've listened to every song downloaded on our phones, fallen asleep to a 9 hour podcast, and visited twenty gas station bathrooms in four different states. The premise of this road trip was my idea. My twin brother and his two best friends would chauffeur me to my summer job on a Wyoming ranch. We started at my home in San Francisco, swam in the clear waters of Lake Tahoe, breezed past the vast Nevada deserts, and watched pink skies nuzzle the potato farms of Idaho. We passed the buffalos and geysers of Yellowstone, peaked our heads in the bars of Jackson Hole and drank the same water as bears in the Grand Tetons. It was breath taking and surreal but the confined space of the car was getting to us. We were ready to stretch our legs and trade our small tent for beds.

So here we were pissed off, a little tired, and reeking of a wet dog. The GPS had suddenly told us we were 100 miles from my final destination rather than our suspected 20. There was no gas or person in sight to ask for directions. The closest thing was a mangy deer on the other side of a wire fence staring quizzically. I looked around at my surroundings. The land was different than California. It didn’t look as pretty as where we just were. The sun was going down fast. The terrain was sparse with only low lying shrubs and an occasional tree. Distant mountains were barely discernible over the rolling hills. They peaked out at us between valleys of barren hills. The one lane highway seemed to stretched for miles.

I pulled out directions I had printed out in case our phones had failed us. By the looks of it we only had twenty miles left. We all sighed. When the road approached the top of a hill, the eye could see rolling hills stretching in miles in every direction. The only sign of man was the black strip of asphalt and the adjacent telephone cables that swung from pole to pole until the wires blended into the sky and the posts weren’t discernible from the beige landscape. We turned onto a dirt road and tapped the brake as the car shook with each rock it rolled over. Where was I? It felt like we were on this path for at least three miles. The dirt road came upon a stream and paralleled it for a few miles. The landscape slowly changed as more trees appeared and the rolling hills became a canyon. Above us were jagged mountains and trees that hid the sun. I was silently praying to see a house, pavement, cars, or any sign of humans really. Finally, eight miles later, a mowed meadow appeared and then a red roof of a barn popped up in the distance. The ranch was there, nestled in a secluded valley next to the river far removed from urban life.

A few weeks later, I was cramped into a car with fellow employees, bumping along the driveway. We'd listened to every song on our phones as everyone slowly drifted to sleep. I looked around at my surroundings. I was struck by its beauty. To the right lay rolling hills of small wildflowers, sagebrush and a herd of small white bellied deer. I squint to try to spot shed lying in the grass, the spring treasure of cowboy country.

Around the bend, the ever faithful Platte River becomes visible. Always filling the silent landscape with a soft hum of the rocks and reeds harmonizing with the current. It could be seen or heard from the peaks and hidden meadows. The river was the wilderness’ veins with its clear and crisp water always carving through the valley. The Rainbow Trout swim downstream, occasionally poking their mouths out of the water to nip at a hopper lounging on the water’s surface. The Platte served as a compass to guide me back to the ranch during any hike. It flows through time sanding down the rocks and carrying away artifacts of storms and generations of man. And yet it itself seemed to stay the same.

I was ashamed at my blindness during my first drive down this road. The raw, untouched land that makes it pure and beautiful was the feature that made me afraid of it. But now that I am not focused on where I have to go, I can sit in the moment. The landscape’s breath and being emerge, and all I want is to live at the end of this dirt road, surrounded by the cliffs and river. Looking up at the ridges surrounding the secluded road, each rock and peak held special memories of thousands of years. On a cliff with a lone tree, the sunset rises every morning highlighting the vestige of a Native American campground. I don’t think it is a coincidence that the tribe chose the most beautiful spot to lay their heads at night, so they could be awoken at dawn by the golden sparkle on the river and the sun winking at them through the trees. On another hill lies the den of a mama bear asleep with her cub. During blizzards that occur 6 months out of the year, the farmer rises from his bed in the valley at 3:30 am to plow the eight miles so his children can get onto the school bus at 7:30. The hard packed dirt in the valley is the markings of hundreds of antelope migrating through each November to find lower elevation and warmer climates. This place is not barren or desolate, but rather a timeless landscape where the reverence for nature still exists. The car strolls down the dirt road and I smile. Even if it is only three months, I’m glad my path got to intersect this perfect dirt road.

Infinite Finity

Caroline Bosch

Memories are usually flashes in the mind; in regards to this one, I see a flash of sunlight on the surface of heavy, dark blue water. I see little islands detached from the shore laced with towering trees and sopping moss, and mountains in the distance that have been carved out by glaciers, leaving behind perfect nooks for giant green people to recline in. I remember sitting in a yellow kayak, after 48 hours of drenching rain. My face was completely clean, soaking up the salt and absorbing the slight wind; my arms bare in a violet t-shirt, my spray skirt tucked inside the cockpit, my eyes glued on the opposite side of the crossing that I was propelling my boat towards.

I remember warmth spreading over my body and into my chest, filling me with sunlight and intense happiness. With each pull of the paddle, something was added to that warmth. I watched my skinny arms force the clear water backwards and my boat slowly inch across the long stretch of water.

I felt is pressure building up inside me that needed to get out. I wanted to expand out of my body, flow over everything and just be everywhere. My soul felt trapped inside my body; I couldn’t tell if I was me, a separate entity, or if I was just a part of the system. I couldn’t tell if I was infinite or finite, if I was the mountain, if I was the tree, if I was the fish jumping out of the water. Here, in this tiny boat on the surface of Prince William Sound, I was a confusing culmination of power, calm, and significance; but also power, calm, and insignificance.

There was a morning that I woke up and decided to walk behind our campsite and try to ground myself. I sat down, with my yellow weather-proof notebook and mechanical pencil, and closed my eyes.

“I’m a tiny red speck on a tiny black stone beach. Neither I nor the beach will live forever, but in this moment I feel bigger than myself, and this beach feels bigger than itself. If you looked on a map of Alaska, you’d see a huge red spot of a girl on an infinite black rock beach.”

There is a sense of aliveness that finds its way into your system when you disconnect from the web of civilization and find yourself on a secluded beach covered in perfect black skipping stones, looking out on jutting rocks and mountains across an expanse of ocean. That aliveness forces you to acknowledge your mortality, but also forces you to acknowledge to immense importance of your being.

I feel alive here, in this metal chair, typing words onto a computer screen, with wires running music into my eardrums. But it’s a sadder aliveness, dulled by the seemingly pointless obligations and structure. This existence is one of waiting for something to happen. The existence on that beach was present.

Regardless of my significance in terms of the overall universe, which is hard to understand, I know that I felt a more tangible sense of purpose outside. With these constructed lives in these constructed buildings in these constructed cities, we’ve forced ourselves to feel a purpose, but I’m not so sure that that purpose is what we really long for. I think what we long for is the power of realizing our insignificance in relation to our natural world, while also realizing our significance simply as living beings.

The Introvert’s Mountain

Vicky Wu

The gravel crunched rhythmically beneath my small feet as I hauled myself forward and up with every step. The air was thin and my lungs felt like they were about to explode. ‘One step at a time Vicky, there can’t be much further,’ I thought to myself. It was a crisp November day as my sister and I set off for a ‘leisurely’ hike. The weather was somewhat customary for what you would expect for early November in Boulder. The sun was shining, but there was a crisp breeze that served as a reminder of the impending winter frost. It would be chilly if you weren’t constantly in the sun. My young 12 year old self had no idea what I had signed up for. Yet as the seemingly endless hike got steeper, my resolve became weaker. I was no longer able to focus on the remnants of greenery that the first frost of the year had missed, the view of the sprawling city that lay to my right, or the vast forest of pine trees on my right. Instead, my mind remained preoccupied on the series of huge boulders and steps I would have to surmount. I felt defeated by the mountain, deciding to stop and stay where I was.

“I’ll wait for you here,” I said as my sister continued up, her small body eventually disappearing behind the vast expanse of trees. My lungs breathed a sigh of relief as I was finally able to catch my breath and bask in the sunlight. Initially, it was quite relaxing. I was finally able to take in the scenery around me. The rhythmic sound of my sister’s feet crunching under the gravel slowly faded as I watched small chipmunks dart around and over the boulders, borrowing into small holes. I decided to find a spot where I could have a vantage point of the city without being an impediment to the other hikers. My breathing was finally able to come down to a comfortable level, but as other hikers continued to pass me, many inquiring on my wellbeing as they saw a small 12 year old sitting alone in the middle of an ‘easy’ trail, I began to wonder, was it too early to have given up? How close was I to the summit? Eventually, my sister’s small frame came into view and we made our way back down the mountain.

A few summers later, I decided to attempt the same hike again, finally having gotten over the initial shame and disappointment of failing to make it to the top. I set off, by myself this time, determined to conquer this mountain. Although my quads still screamed and my lungs still burned, I made my way up, basking in the solidarity of my thoughts and the nature around me. This time around I was able to pay more attention to the red earth and the unique boulders that lined the trail. Some spots were extremely narrow, being only wide enough for the width of my shoe, others rather wide, seemingly a mountain on the mountain. The damage from the previous spring’s flood was still prevalent, tree trunks and sticks barricading certain parts of the trail with debris and unstable rocks. Yet still, there was a way, one way or another, around the damaged sections upwards towards the top.

This specific hike is not a direct path up and down. Rather, there are many curves throughout the trail that prevent you from seeing the top until you’re essentially there. I’ve learned that it’s a series of three hurdles – three steep climbs with flatter plateaus in between each climb. Unless you are extremely familiar with the trail, you’re never quite sure how close to the summit you are. It then becomes a mental game of pacing yourself and pushing your body to continuously move forward. While the view up is not necessarily the most scenic, the top is completely breathtaking, providing a 360 degree view of the city. There is a sense of triumph and pride that encapsulates you as you climb that final boulder, physically marking your accomplishment. Perhaps it seemed even more glorious as I was not able to make it up the first time, but the wave of awe that encapsulates you is completely indescribable. It’s an existential experience as you realize just how small and insignificant you are in the entire realm of the world. Not dissimilar to the experience of an airplane’s descent, as the city lights come into view, the ant size cars flooding the highways. A huge 40 ton semi-truck up close is merely a dainty little light in the horizon.

Completing the hike that day was substantial in marking three facets of my personal growth. While it obviously challenged my physical strength, it also tested my perseverance, my mental creativity, and my curiosity. In a recent NPR podcast on ‘Stories That Will Spark Your Imagination’, Susan Cain did an episode titled ‘Why Do We Undervalue Introverts’. In her podcast, she asserted that creativity and curiosity emerges not from collaboration, but rather solitude and the ability to grapple with the thoughts in your own mind. In understanding your own mind and creative outlets, there leads to a greater understanding of self and your own sense of curiosity. To extend that further, rather than a relationship of the environment on the self, there is also a reciprocal relationship in which the mind too can influence and shape the wider environment.

While understanding oneself is necessary, it is also necessary to understand your environment and the impact your mind can have in changing, improving, or damaging the environment. Is human resiliency, one that privileges perseverance and staunch commitment in preventing unplanned or unforeseen events from impacting or changing the ‘ultimate’ plan one that can be understood solely by understanding the own mind? Or is it a reciprocal conversation where natural events and disasters such as hurricanes, typhoons, earthquakes, and global warming are telling us to collaborate and work together both with each other and the environment to create a solution that is beneficial to all parties involved? Is it smart to continue to continue to build on a flood plain just because we as humans understand it to be part of a thriving plan?

That summer, I hiked the same mountain every day, getting progressively stronger and faster both physically and mentally, challenging and immersing myself in new thoughts. While I’d like to attribute my success to pure will and perseverance, the most impactful part of my ability to conquer this mountain was due to its sheer layout. The dissection of the terrain into three sets of steep climbs between the flatter parts challenged my resolve and reminded me of change. Just when you think you have made it, there lies another climb ahead… until you get to the very top, at which you realize how genuinely small you are in the huge world. It’s often easy for me to become engrossed in my own life and worries, but this hike serves as a constant reminder that my ‘world’ is but a seemingly small part of the planet. Thus, I, as an introvert, conquered my mountain, but simultaneously realized how large this world is.

Rocky Mountain Identity Fever

Chris FitzGerald

When I was fifteen, I took my first flight by myself to a dinky rural airport in Landers, Wyoming. I travelled to Wyoming to join part of an Outward-Bound type trip called NOLS, the National Outdoor Leadership School. The plan, set forth by my parents, was for me to spend a month traversing the Rocky Mountain Wilderness, mediating on my short life thus far, and “creative” college essay ideas. Regardless of our different goals, I agreed to go through with the NOLS adventure. Once we left the comfort of the quaint base camp, I soon became immersed in a totally different environment, which did end up leading to some unique personal reflections.

The first thing I noticed about Wyoming, was the big sky. The area’s nickname is well deserved. For whatever reason, the big blue sky seems to stretch overhead for far greater distances than it does in the contained environment of New England. Perhaps it is the daunting mountain faces, glaring down across the wide expanses, perhaps it is the trickling threads of water ripping through boundless grassy meadows. Regardless, my perspective changed. The world around me felt bigger and I felt smaller, almost immediately. Feeling smaller, seemed to increase my nervousness at first. When I was first tossed into my ten member team, I felt the familiar feeling of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Soon thereafter, I realized the ancient awesome peaks meant no harm and remained motionless as we crept across them. After this reassurance, I stopped noticing the butterflies inside and turned my sights to the butterflies outside.

Somehow, despite my best efforts, the striking environment of the Rocky Mountains reframed my own sense of personal identity. In particular, the domineering terrain seemed to weaken my own sense of personal identity. Most psychologists would probably stress the value of personal identity, however, my brief experiences thus far, and my trip to Wyoming, both taught me that a sense of personal identity is overrated. Admittedly, personal identity can help to ground a person. When someone is immersed in a new environment, they can revert back to their own perception of who they are and what their place in the world should be. My relationship with nature, and my relationships with my fellow backpackers both challenged my perception of my self-identity and the idea that a strong self-identity was a good thing.

I was used to being the most dominate aspect of my environment. I could claim any hill I saw in my familiar New England town and I could easily walk down the road to any destination I envisioned. The pecking order changed in Wyoming. The brutal cliff walls and stretching seas of green ruled this place, and I was a helpless visitor. Forcedly, I accepted my place in society and behaved according to my place in my current social relationships. On the other hand, the team leaders stripped us of our previous relationships, by taking away our phones, and forced us to start from scratch with the other students around us. We formed more equal and mutually beneficial relationships than I had ever acted in before.

Altogether, the craggy cliffs and winding forest covered trails taught me several lessons. It showed me that my own place in the world may not be as important as before. With a less egocentric attitude, I found it easier to empathize with others and formed important relationships that greatly differed from my previous positions. This month-long environmental shift allowed me to reanalyze the world around me and utilize my new perspective to form long-lasting valuable relationships.