Mule Deer by Jupp

Our road trip this summer took us through Utah, Arizona and Colorado. We explored as much as we could while camping, overlanding and hiking. We were on the road for 29 nights.
In my pursuit of being intimate with the many landscapes we encountered, I captured special moments and impressions along the way.

I haven’t produced a single poem, but I have written a lot. This is what I want to remember.

*
A dusk heron’s great shadow crosses the sky as the first stars appear.
*
Hues of red and golden sandstone cast on eroded canyon walls. Time and weather have forced the canyon open. Now the sandstone pillars in the West know the red walls in the East through their shadows. The sun sketches one landscape on the other, ever in flux.
*
A Western Bluebird is a welcome visitor.

*
I find the perfect rock to sit cross legged on the edge of the Grand Canyon North Rim. But then I think, what a waste of view to have my eyes closed. I open them and find the pigeon I had heard before it dove into the canyon. It quiets down, with only a few swallows in sight. And I thought that swallows were silent, but they swish in the canyon wind. Given that ears are close enough to hear them. The Steller’s jay makes me wish I had brought the camera with me as it poses on the edge, next to a baby spruce tree.
*
I am filled with serenity.
I sit with the land as the sun sets.
There are no words as grand as this landscape.
*
The pine trees in the wind sound like an ocean
and the clusters of needles they drop on our tent
could be raindrops, too.
How sound can take you some place special.

*
We are at Point Sublime and have the place to ourselves.
The strata in the rocks remind me of last night’s dream. My skin was a lot more tanned and I had stretch marks on my belly. In real life I only get them where my hips are the widest. When I saw them on my belly in my dream, I was in awe of how two new lives, my children, expanded me and made my body grow and stretch. It was only natural for that to be visible on my skin. I also see a simple wooden door, which is the door to the outhouse at the campsite. The grain of the wood is unobscured by a plastic coating. Seeing the natural wood fills me with joy. It reminds me of a life simply built, away from many people.

*
fox-sized squirrels – Eichhörnchen in der Größe eines Fuchses
redwing – Rotflügel
canyon wind – Canyonwind
thunder-the sky’s drum – Donner-Himmelstrommel

It’s not poems that come to me here. But words that hold brief moments. Redwing. The flicker of a red winged bird, which will turn out to be a Northern Flicker. Rotbeflügelter Vogel. Canyon Wind. The wind that comes up from the depths of the canyon, the grandest there is. And how I picture myself out on the edge. A wind creature – Windwesen. Wesen des Windes. And how the wind would have tugged on my clothes and would have freed hair from my ponytail. And the only bird I would have wanted to shapeshift into was a raven. Ein Rabe. To turn into magic myself. Where do the ravens go in a storm?
*
Again, I ask, what are we in our roof top tent to the rock ledge as the first small raindrops land on the fabric? Are we just the unusual source of sound, a rain drum – eine Regentrommel or are we more than that?
The words that find me here, amidst the junipers; I wonder about their sound and what they would sound like in German. I taste them on the tip of my tongue, where they are sweet. Some of them just get more complicated in German. But there is also a lot of potential for wordplay. Take the silver ring, my memory catcher for instance. Ein Erinnerungsfänger.
If I could catch the red winged bird, a Northern Flicker, and the canyon wind, and the sky’s drum with the ring and then, whenever I look through it, I could peek into the images behind the words. The Flicker itself as it flies away, the pine trees swaying in the canyon wind, the shape of the clouds that were drumming with thunder. If I could take this place with me. And I am trying by picking special words, but will they ever do it justice?
*
And it’s not poems that come to me, but trains of thought in which I follow the words.

*
Petrichor – a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather (New Oxford American Dictionary)
Rain as the choir of the earth.
For the water makes the soil sing, sometimes even roar. As we drive through Capitol Reef National Park, it rains and the earth is fragrant with moisture. It’s an eerie drive under an overcast sky.

*
I am filled with the landscapes of Arizona and Utah.
Their majestic canyons and red earth and sheer rock faces, manifold and ever changing takes away some of the intensity of my emotions. As a result, writing becomes less urgent. Right now, I am taking it all in, with a big exhale.
*
It is a hot day. As in 106F/41C hot. My body doesn’t take it well. Anything I touch is warmed by the sun, even in the shade. There is no escape from the heat, for even the wind brings more warm air, and I just long for winter. For us humans, it’s easier to create warmth. I tend to find great pleasure in a warming cup of tea wrapped in cozy layers. Or hot cocoa by a campfire when we are out in the colder months. Or a hearty stew on a freezing winter’s day. But today I cannot create something that will cool me down. Even a dip in the murky Green River isn’t refreshing. By the time I am back at camp, I am just as hot as before. I cannot stand this landscape anymore. There are clouds all around us, but our patch of sky stays stubbornly clear. The creatures that live here must be just as stubborn. And they are smart about it, too. We have had ants as neighbors at every campsite in Utah and Arizona. Here in Canyonlands National Park it’s the red ones, whose bite hurts with an extra punch. I have observed their pattern: they only come overground until a certain temperature or position of sun in the sky. They usually come visiting in the morning before the ground starts to cook and in the evening around our dinner time, and clean our crumbs while they are at it. They make the best of the time outside their burrow. It takes them less than five minutes to find the horse fly like insect I had slapped on my shin, and carry it away. Four ants working together. Once the ants are back underground, it’s the bats who leave their caves and crevices to snack on a few insects or pollinate some plants, usually around dawn. And probably later into the night too, but then they are harder to spot.
*
Last streaks of daylight are caught in the dreamy clouds. Once the bats are swallowed by the dark, I can look at the stars in awe again. Hermine spots a shooting star.
*
We are greeted with the tiniest sprinkle of rain the next morning. An apology?
*
Heat means silence, at least away from the river. The river greets us with birdsong. Water is life.
*
This landscape speaks a merciless language and I am reminded of my own mortality. It speaks with heat and erosion and it is in no hurry. In the end, we will all succumb to gravity.

*
We finally find refreshment in the shape of Mills Creek. Crystal clear water and a creek bed as red as the towering sandstone walls on each side of the canyon. Firstly, we stop by the water hole where most people go. Young people jump off cliffs despite the danger. The water is too shallow to make jumping safe. They are so careless that it hurts. All of that testosterone irritates me. We hike on and find a quiet spot with some shade and slick rocks we can slide down where the water trickles over them. I rest in the creek, its reflection caught at the underside of my hat’s brim. I slow down. To be able to cool off I realize that it takes stillness. Like a reverse lizard. The tension of being hot washes off me. Being in the water is most delicious while naked when there is no one else around but us.
It is then that pleasure can become medicine.
In this state, I hear the Raven call and feel its magic.
*
At Mills Creek we see signs of beaver activity. Dams that create deep spots in the water as well as gnawed at and felled cottonwood trees. The marks of the beaver’s teeth are still visible on the stumps, faded to grey by sun and the lack of rain. I imagine the beaver feasting on the fish we see. Later that night, I dream of fish, getting bigger and bigger. The largest one tries to bite Hermine, its mouth gaping with the mute expression of an opened fish mouth. Are fish the only animals that open their mouths without talking?
*
In another dream I am in a black and white video, wondering why I am there. Then I see my mother as a young child, dressed up for carnival. She looks happy and playful. Seeing her like this puts me at ease.
I realize that, at least, my mother didn’t suffer. She didn’t see her death coming. No one did. She led a happy life with people that loved her immensely. We still do. Can I bring up the strength to see this as a gift?

*
We have turned into shade lingerers.
*
I am perched in our roof top tent while the day turns to dusk. Bats appear, shortly before Venus does. The bats fly low, so low that it’s the first time they are under me. They are so close that I can hear them, but I am not sure if it is the sound of their leathery wings or their echolocation. Two bats fly daringly close to each other, as if in courtship.

*
Jupp leaves the tailgate open while he stocks up on some groceries in the Village Market. The kids and I wait in the car, with windows down because it is yet another hot day in Moab. When Jupp returns, he finds a small bird nestled in our drawer system and asks me to get it out. I see that the bird is a dove, grey coated, gentle eyed, with a somewhat curved beak. It dawns on me that the dove sought the shade of our truck and maybe the nook of our drawers reminded it of home. I come closer and gently cup my hands by the bird. The closer I get, the more I realize it’s a juvenile, not yet experienced enough to stay clear of non-bird places. I wish I could hold it, but I am too afraid to touch it. After two more nudges of my hands, a few inches away, the juvenile dove flies off and lands on the supermarket roof. Soon a parent appears.

*
We are taking the RimRocker Trail from Moab to Colorado. At our first campsite we are greeted by another ocean of pine. A bald eagle flies by, and lands on a needleless branch of a pine tree. The pines stop oceaning.
*
We have been in Colorado for a few days now, but everything seems so fleeting. We are driving trails during the day, difficult ones, because we are not alone for now, and camp in a new spot each night. We are moving forward each day, and know that we won’t return. The only constant is that we find a campsite close to a creek. We become creek dwellers, in a way. We pay tribute with our blood that is collected by ravenous mosquitos.
*
Once deep enough into Colorado, we are surrounded by mountains, up to over 14 000 feet high and evergreen forests as far as the eye can see. It is a landscape I truly enjoy, but after over three years on the coast, my sense of direction is impaired without an ocean that tells me where South is.
*
We are in forests where creeks gurgle downhill relentlessly. Running water is something I truly miss where we live in CA. We set up our outdoor shower that uses propane to heat up water directly from the creek. At first, the water is indeed warmed by the shower, but then we run out of propane and the temperature drops to 38F. I rinse myself while humming a random tune, which is my coping mechanism for being cold. I indulge in the creek’s truth. The kids are playing in the water, red footed and unimpressed by the cold. I step in too, but have to get out soon, because the cold water makes my feet’s blood vessels contract, which hurts.

*
I am getting some luxurious creek moments by myself in the morning. The water is still pinching my feet, so I have to leave the water a few times to let the pain subside. After a few turns in the water, my feet have adjusted. The pebbles here are being smoothed by water and time. Once my feet are grounded in the cold water, it’s my pebble seeking hands that pinch. It’s time to stop taking pebbles. I don’t want to leave. As a sign of my gratitude and appreciation, I give a tiny quartz crystal to the creek. I received it with my left hand and return it to the mountains with my right.

*
Another morning, we are having breakfast by the creek. The early light trickles through the canopy of spruce and fir and dances on the water. We see deer, woodpeckers, and an American dipper. The wildflowers open and turn towards the sun. Life here is lush and abundant. To me, this is fairy creek. While I cradle my tea mug, I relish in the creek’s nourishment for mind, body and soul.
*
The day I wonder why I haven’t seen a raven in a while, I find a raven feather by a tiny wild rose.

The mountain sky brews up a storm.
Two ravens ride the warm currents.

My heart reaches out and is embraced by this evergreen mountainous landscape.
The words come.
*
When we are above the treeline, we find ourselves in an Alpine Tundra, a fragile ecosystem. Yet, it is speckled by abandoned mine shafts and mining relics.

*
Black Canyon of the Gunisson
I prefer water in a contained form, like a river or a lake or an ocean. Water that I can seek or avoid. Rain is different. When it rains, water gets out of control. I don’t like the sensation of raindrops hitting my body and eventually making my clothes wet. Shirt and pants that then stick to my body and make me cold. However, there is unmet beauty in a landscape after a storm. The light is precious, often against a dark sky, still speckled with gray clouds that mean rain. There is also an unmet coziness of time spent inside while the rain drums away on windows. Our roof top tent has a sky window and we spend a whole morning in it as it rains incessantly. I catch Jupp watching the raindrops fall on that window and how they form bigger drops and how they follow gravity whenever they can. He has an expression of boyish bliss on his face. I am not sure what he is thinking, if he is thinking at all, and fall in love with him again. We also giggle blissfully every time we push the sky window upward a little to send the water down to make a big splash.
*
The sound of rain is calming.
The smell of earth enriched with rain is delicious.

*
Rocky Mountain NP.
The moment we leave the truck to settle into our campsite for the next three nights, I hear a raven call.

*
We are spending the afternoon by the river. The water is clear and fast talking, golden flakes are glittering on the riverbed. We settle on a rocky river bend with long swaying grass on the other side. The bend has deeper water than where the water runs in a straight line, bubbling shallowly over orange tinted rocks. We are in good company. Violet-green swallows feast on water insects and swoop down to take a sip here and there. Watching them makes my head spin. I go into the water incrementally. First feet and ankles, to get a feeling for the water, how strong the current is, how cold it is. I am pleased to feel that the water is not pinching. Instead, it is refreshing. Still, I take my time, with my legs being goose bumped when they are fully submerged. My pelvis makes contact with the river, which usually has me adjusting for quite a while. I decide to move with the water, swaying my weight from one foot to the other. How are you supposed to be with such a moving force while being entirely still? I am not a rock, after all. I bend my knees to let the water reach my belly button. At this point, my arms are still out of the river, but it is about time to dunk my hands in too. Hermine starts splashing me from a shallower spot. I splash back and hit Frederick with a few drops as well. We are all in giggles and playful moods. I have to go on my knees to let the water reach my chest and almost my shoulders. Hermine joins me in my spot, although she is a little shy of the current. The violet-green swallows don’t mind our presence and keep looping for food close to our heads. They are joyous flashes in green and white and violet. Finally, the river is up to my neck, not cold. I take a few breast strokes against the current, each time losing an inch. If it could, the water would take me all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. That’s how far East we are, on the other side of the Continental Divide. I keep splashing in the water for a little bit, catching my breath after playing with the current. My arms get tired quickly, not used to the movement. I squat in the water, bringing up handfuls of sand to look closer at the sparkles and marvel at the rocks. Most of them are tiny, some of them are translucent, none are really polished by the river. I don’t know how long I stay in the river, and when I leave it is not because I am too cold, but because I am saturated in a way only water can saturate someone. It’s the feeling of being tired and more alive at the same time. I keep watching the violet-green swallows, whose lives are set on roller coasters they deeply enjoy.

*
After being a coast dweller for almost four years, I am looking for an ocean wherever there is none. When I close my eyes under the swooshing ponderosa pines or by the eloquent creek, I can hear the waves, 900 miles away. And yet, I could leave the coast for a cabin in the mountains any day.

*
We are on our last offroad trails of this trip. In Western Colorado we explore wildflower mountain meadows and admire small mountain lakes. This is as remote as it gets. We only see a herd of sheep and their two shepherds with their trusty horses and loyal dogs, there to herd and guard the sheep. They could have come from another century, too. There are small and simple trailers scattered in the area, nomadic homes for the shepherds.
*
We are taking the slow way home, gradually saying goodbye to the creeks.

*
Lightings guide us to bed. Nestled in our roof top tent, we listen to the sky’s stories of weather. Far away, it seems, thunder mumbles of rain, maybe. Heavy rain clouds go for an evening stroll, amused by our insistence to stay dry. Soon they tap on our roof. After a gentle rhythm, their tapping becomes more urgent. I am wondering if the ground will have turned into a big red muddy puddle by the next morning. But then the rain stops again. Nature won’t be rushed.
*
I prefer the meadow of wildflowers to the bouquet that would wither away within a day.
*
It is a gradual good-bye to Colorado. Only now do I come to appreciate the gradual hello from when we first drove into Colorado. Back then I thought that we would find ourselves in the Colorado that I was expecting within the blink of an eye.
However, landscapes don’t change drastically with state borders.

*
As a last farewell present from the mountains, we discover porcinis, king boletes. Steinpilze. They are so large that we can see them while driving. Hermine and I pick three, leaving the prettiest ones to the forest dwellers. I inherited my love for mushroom hunting from my dad, whom I miss dearly while stalking the porcinis under the spruce trees.

*
We are headed towards a storm. But never reach it. Instead, we are greeted by puddles that lure our noses into taking breaths full of sagebrush and juniper.

*
Red soil and rock act as harbingers of the West. Vorbote des Westens.
Here, the land speaks in color again. Red soil under sagebrush. Red rocks dotted with juniper trees.
The word red doesn’t do the land’s language justice, though. This type of red is more than just a color.

*
Where the road bends to meet the ocean, I know we have returned. I see the salt water under a hazy day. With the road parallel to the shore, I know again where South is. My soul can rest, knowing that the ocean is exactly how I left it.