Desert Odds and Ends

The Harsh Mistress

~ Part 3 ~

(Originally posted by ML on the Hoods Woods Forum, 20 June 2006; reproduced here with the author's permission)

1. A Pile of Rocks

Just a big pile of rocks out in the middle of nowhere. But rocks don’t pile themselves, do they? What’s going on here? Let’s stop the dirt bike, take off our helmet, and nose around a little.

Digging through the cairn, we come upon a little tin box—a touch bigger than one of today’s contemporary Altoids tins. What might we find inside?

Anyone staking a mining claim on BLM land needs to mark that claim in some manner. The traditional method is to put a post or stake on the four corners of the claim’s boundaries (presuming a square claim area in this example). The claim also needs to be marked and recorded, usually at the county seat.

Today there’s GPS and USGS topographic maps to help us really pinpoint things precisely. But that wasn’t always the case. And those stakes and claim posts—in the desert, wood is at a premium. Claim posts are often scavenged for firewood, or knocked over when burros rub up against them. This miner used a pile of rocks and put his claim papers in a tin box buried in the monument. And he did it a hundred and four years ago, where it sat for all that time. (The square nails and the broken fork came from a long-abandoned mining camp in the general vicinity.)

* * * * *

2. Barnes and Noble, Desert Style

A grove of palms—just eight or nine trees—out in the middle of nowhere. Wonder what’s out there? Let’s follow that uninhibited young lady on the right side of the photo as she strolls towards them.

What have we here? A little cultural oasis in addition to the shade and water, with volumes that hold something for everyone: plant and animal guides to the area, literature, natural history, ancient history, good fiction, really bad fiction, poetry, philosophy—everything except books on religion and politics.

I reach in my bag and leave the book I’m carrying with me. Maybe it’s still there.

* * * * *

3. The Agony of Da Feet

A month ago, I posted a photo of one of my sandals that the desert had punished. And I noted the following:

“The ground temperature was a measured 134 degrees (Fahrenheit) at 11:00 in the morning—and mind you, this is only May, not August or September. The heat transfer through these sandals was such that the bottoms of Your Humble Narrator’s feet took on the smooth, shiny look of skin which has been lightly and momentarily touched by a clothes iron.”

My feet had been cooked (or at least lightly toasted), not because I had walked barefoot over hot rocks or blazing sand, but through the unrelenting heat which came up through my sandals themselves. Not cooked badly, mind you, but cooked nonetheless. Four weeks later, here’s what they looked like:

Not a disaster, but not inconsequential either. The need for appropriate footwear is once again emphasized.

--ML