Juniper berries are a small waxy fruit with a baby blue powder coat and peculiar little horns. The waxy texture of this berry is so dense like a resin and the flavor so bitter that hardly anything eats them. The juniper tree itself grows into a short stand with many trunks, much like a large bush. It is however a distant relative of the pine tree with its needles reduced down to form little more than a green segmented branch. Every segment where a needle would grow on other pines the juniper’s branch remains flat.
The shade of one of these extraordinary trees is where I reside this evening as the sun slowly lowers in the western sky. I’ve taken up my seat beneath a tree that lives in a little wash and am facing north toward the bright white face of Spirit Mountain’s southern precipice. From this outlook Spirit’s great dragon tooth, an upstanding column that tapers at the top giving it the shape of a fang is clearly visible and appears as tall as the summit of the great mountain.
I am joined this evening by a swarm of may, horse, and fruit flies who seem to enjoy the novelty of white paper and bare feet. They do not seem to be reading my notes, as the need coaxing to allow me to turn the page in my notebook. A variety of lizards can be seen slowly crawling along the sunny sand around this campsite. On occasion you can hear the whir of a hummingbird as it zips past, probably in search of the next patch of wildflower in bloom. The variety and beauty of desert wildflowers truly boggles the mind. Next to me is a patch of tiny white flowers on a millimeter or two in diameter on the end of grass stalks a few centimeters tall. I can also see blooms of yellow, violet, deep and baby blues, reds, oranges and every combination thereof. Even the Yucca, a large hard plant that produces spear-like leaves has managed to shoot up massive flower stalks that tower over my head to display its large white flowers.
Sitting so close to Spirit Mountain does give a certain sense of doing wrong, as if by being here I am encroaching upon something sacred. This feeling is somewhat exacerbated by the fact that this campsite is massive, reaching far beyond what is necessary. There are tire tracks that lead in every direction around the area and every possible inch of ground that could be trample is. The patches of ground that slope too much for a tent have apparently been trampled or turned into dumpsites for broken glass and beer cans. Fire rings patch the ground every twenty paces or so and seem to grow in size as they approach the road. One ring is easily four feet across and nearly a foot deep surrounded by scorched rocks, ash pouring out and half burned trash pied up in the center. Because this heathen’s site lies outside of the National Parks Service’s Wilderness boundary and instead is within BLM land there is little chance that it will receive any rehabilitation or protection. On top of that the tribes have required the NPS to not allow camping within the Spirit Mountain Wilderness so everyone who visits the area is funneled out into this site, so it will continue to grow and grow.
As the sun sinks still lower and lower it paints the southern face of Spirit in an eerie orange glow. The shadows of each spire cast long and dark giving enormous depth and striking aesthetics to the ominous structure. The jagged ridgeline seems to saw through the darkening sky like a red hot cross-cut blade.
The unmistakable whine-like hum of mosquito wings begins to fill my ears and my hopes of sleeping out under the stars again tonight start to fade. I have a bad habit of itching mosquito bites in my sleep, so no matter how hard I try to prevent myself from scratching during the day, it will eventually and regretfully happen.
Through Christmas Tree Pass, which separates Spirit Mountain Wilderness and Bridge Canyon Wilderness I can see the monuments of Castle Rock, an incredibly formed ridgeline that just so happens to look like a castle wall is built on top of it. It is shrouded in a deep purple shadow up against the intensely red setting sun, neon pink clouds and surrounded by a baby blue sky. The scene could be pulled from a postcard off a shelf at a historic sight in northern Scotland, except for the Yucca and Juniper.
A steady breeze blows again tonight as the temperature dwindles. My thoughts trace back to last night down in the shallow alcove of Lake Mojave. I spent the night hiding from the wind under a salt cedar watching the stars slowly spin above me hidden in part by the black silhouette of whisping leaves. I was awoken during the night by a kangaroo rat, a small rodent with an immensely long tail and strong hind legs designed for hopping. I also should mention their cunningly cute faces with giant black eyes and long whiskers. My little friend decided to rouse me from my slumber by leaping onto my forehead and quickly jumping off again. He stood next to me for a short while, as I peered into the darkness harnessing all of my ability to make out his tiny shadow. Perhaps perplexed by my size, smell, and strange reaction to having been lept upon, he scurried about me making sure to poke his tiny nose into every nook along the outside of my sleeping bags. Made somewhat uncomfortable at first by this thorough investigation I soon came to smile at the novelty of befriending a wild local.
As the morning sun began the process of transforming the sky from black to blue I awoke to a small band of grey flycatchers foraging in the branches above my head. These tiny birds, no bigger than a sparrow are easily identified by their short forked tail feathers. They chirped and flapped about the salt cedar paying little mind to me, although in my sleeping bag I am sure I looked like a giant orange caterpillar. With my new found pride in tentless camping and having enjoyed my wildlife experiences of the evening I happily arose to start another day in Spirit.
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