At the Edge of the Earth
I recall feeling trapped in the vast openness that was laid out before me. The van motored
down the infinite stretch of Interstate 10 much as it had for the last six days, none the wiser of
the barren landscape it had borne us to. Sunrise clung to the flatland like a cold pink stain,
content to shirk its obligations if only to remain here for a few moments more. Stretching for
thousands of miles in all directions, it seemed endless: the fallout of a nuclear explosion. Rocks
and boscage were here and there, scattered like building blocks of a realm no longer fit for the
trappings of human industry or recreation. I had been through here three or four times in the
past, though normally preoccupied with the peevishness that intense heat and close quarters
could instill in even the most patient person. Fortunately it was fall now, although aside from the
cool air that streamed through the van one might have never noticed a difference. No crisp red
maple trees dotted the scenery, just sun beaten chunks of black wood petrified to stone by years
of punishment. I could make out the faint outline of a jack rabbit trolling along the shoulder of
the road. Creatures as rangy as the coyotes that hunted them, the Mojave had made them lean
and efficient much like all the wildlife of the high desert.
As the monotone scenery streaked by I couldn’t help but wonder about the ethos of
countless souls who had disappeared into this wilderness over the centuries. In search of gold, or
fortune, or freedom, it would take a person possessed of some madness to venture into such a
barren terrain, for the word “inviting” was not synonymous with the spectacle I now surveyed. In
theory, I understood the barefaced appeal; an open range and an even bigger sky to stake one’s
claim under. The honest truth is, when faced with such an expanse there is a feeling of isolation
that comes over you, much like being on open water. The irony is that in fact this was once
covered by the same oppressor that it ultimately reminds me of: the sea. Although water had not
flown over these lands freely in thousands of years, on hot summer days you can always see
transparent waves drifting along the horizon; the eternal apparition of the mother that has long
since abandoned her offspring.
The relentless heat is a perfect lens for viewing the granular arrangement that erosion has
provided. The rocks and land have an overall worn quality, rounded off and cut into various
geometric shapes that resemble abstract architecture; natural artwork left to burnish under the
dazzling white light of the midday sun and a fine coat of silt. Elegant Joshua trees stand along
the highway like paralyzed hitchhikers, and in the distance the outline of the San Bernardino
range juts upward from the earth — a stark comparison to the ground its shadow dances across.
Sand and rocks, yucca plants and galleta grass, they all wait patiently for their reprieve in the
aging sentinel’s shade. There stands the weary watcher of the eastern desert, pushed ever higher
by the unflagging shift of the San Andreas Fault. Its rich brown soil and powdery snow caps
benefit from dynamism of color that the Mojave will never know, for bathed in beige, it becomes
the world’s dullest kaleidoscope. The animals are beige, the rocks are beige, the plants are
bleached beige and the winds stir up innocuous dirt devils that are yet again a glorious shade of
beige.
Snakes and bugs crawl and slither under the afternoon sun, moving between dried
bunchgrasses, hoping to avoid its unmitigated gaze and while there is sparse shade to be found
there is no escape from the arid climate. Dried riverbeds run north to south dotted with various
leathery plants all hoping to glean what little moisture remains beneath the top soil, and again I
wonder…”What would draw someone to a place like this?”. Mojave Indians lived here for
thousands of years toiling away in the callous environment, making dull pottery under the
cloudless blue sky. They would then walk hundreds of miles to the pacific coast to trade their
wares, only to make the long trip back to their homes. These were not callow people, they knew
the ways of the world and somehow they chose this place. Under the blaze of high noon it seems
impossible to understand why any person would ever choose to subject themselves to such a life,
but in the waning hours of the day it all becomes very clear. Purples, reds, oranges, greens,
yellows, deep blues, all present themselves as if to make amends for the cruelty of the day. The
colors come together in a gorgeous amalgamation; the visual orchestra of the setting sun.
It is a gradual fade, beginning hours before you would ever suspect a sunset would begin,
and yet it seems to last only a few minutes. First the soft yellows and oranges, then the reds and
blues staining the few straggling wisps of stratus clouds until they look like blotted cotton balls
that have been stretched apart. Long dark shadows pitch eastward from the cacti, along with
anything else light can be bent around. The ground almost seems to turn black and for the first
time of the day you finally see the green of the yuccas and diamond chollas. There is no more
dull beige, just a brooding dark tan that glitters with minerals baked translucent by heat and time.
The sister moon can be seen hovering in the background patiently awaiting her turn to shine soft
white luminescence. It is this soft light that draws out the sparkle of the land below, like the
reflection of moonlight upon rippling water.
The ground is bathed in red as our weary god now reaches the final stretch of his descent.
It is in this moment that we see it, having long ago stopped the van and taken better vantage
points along the roof of the sand covered automobile, the moment of divinity. The sun turns a
pale white – not sallow, but fragile – and San Bernardino turns a deep shade of mauve. The
clouds are now pink and purple; the land has all faded to a flat black and the glowing artist
silently dips behind the mountain range.
Specks of white begin to show through the layers of atmospheric paint, and the scene
slowly washes away as the nourishing gaze of the pale sister shines down on the shadowed earth.
All is wrapped in darkness now and still we watch from the top of the van. We’re just suckers
sitting on the edges of our seats hoping to get another flash of the dancer that has just left the
stage, but alas the show is over.
As the grit crunches beneath my shoes I cast a final glance towards the west. You can
hear the movement of life in the dark, and you can feel its vibrancy emanating from the earth
itself. The sea has come back to the Mojave and in the distance I can hear the crashing of waves
as the wind whips down from the mountainside. Through all of my castigations and judgments,
my scrupulous eyes missed the true allure of this place. It isn’t the sun or the sediment, the flora
or the fauna, it’s the spirit: the heartbeat of sacred stretches of land that have seen the rise and
fall of the oceans and now stand as an ancient idol, resilient to the iconoclasts that the world has
set against it. This is where life has found itself in a delicate dance of brutality and beauty, where
the sand meets the sky: at the edge of the earth.