It wasn’t that special a night, really. I was in Black Canyon in the Mojave Preserve for a two-day meeting of desert protection activists, good people all and fine company, but that soul-quenching aloneness I long for will have to wait for another visit. There was good conversation with people I had not seen for a while as the sky went dark, and then one person after another drifted away, those still talking just slightly more alcohol-fueled than I could keep up with. Being the only sober person in a crowd generally makes me retreat into myself and so I slipped away, got my sleeping bag and Thermarest, and wandered out into the desert.
The temperature had dropped some, and the wind picked up: those still talking at the picnic tables were bundled up against the chill. My coworker Terry had grown a look of slight concern earlier when I said I didn’t think I’d be putting my tent up. There was a low in the mid-forties predicted for the night with a stiff wind, and was I sure I’d be warm enough? I gambled. Putting the tent up means taking it down the next day, and anyway I’d just be trading a few degrees warmth for the constant flapping of tent fabric before the wind.
I found a bare spot in the lee of a leafless acacia, set out my sleeping pad and bag, took off a layer of clothing and stuck it in the sleeping bag’s storage sack, weighted with a gallon and a half of water. I lay back and zipped up. A faint chill ran the length of my legs and I wondered if that would set in, grow by increment and make me shiver through the night.
It didn’t, and I was moderately comfortable all night. I slept moderately well. I woke frequently, the way I do on any first night sleeping out. I would open my eyes, check the position of the Large Bear relative to its northerly cub, realize I didn’t remember where it had been the last time I saw it so that I couldn’t gauge elapsed time, settle back and wait for a meteor, and then fall back asleep. Around five the sky got light, but I dawdled lazily for an hour or so before getting up.
All told it was an unremarkable night spent sleeping out, one of hundreds in my life, and though I suppose I may be a bit unusual in that I still find the practice comfortable with my half century old skeleton it was nothing special. I got tired, I laid down, I slept, I woke up, I drank coffee.
Except that there’s this: Settling into my bag, as I turned out my flashlight, the sky rushed in to mantle me. No moon in the sky, but the stars were bright enough that I could see the acacia branches silhouetted against them, and a dozen feet of earth in any direction, and my hand in front of my face, and nothing else on Earth but half the universe beyond it. The low murmurs of my companions a few hundred feet away faded, their small lights squelched, and in my waking sleep I was alone. All that was was me, the acacia and the universe, and the acacia and me merely bits of the universe where it had folded in upon itself, the crystallized ash of ancient stars.
Nice. The stars were grand. You were smart not to put up a tent. Mine flapped so loud I thought it would blow away.
Beautiful. Just gorgeous.
Especially this: “nothing else on Earth but half the universe beyond it.” I’m saving that somewhere.
Sounds like a special night to me, after all. What may have seemed common place, is perhaps not usual at all. Thanks for sharing this. Some of your descriptions were wonderful.
Bill:www.wildramblings.com
Ah, I got tired, I slept, I got up, I drank coffee and while drinking my coffee, read this post and the last paragraph was so beautiful that I feel like my whole day will be blessed from seeing and feeling and remembering those images. Thank you . . . swan . . .
Am so missing desert home away from home (and people)...thanks for stunning visual of the mind as usual Chris.
Excellent report on a night out under the stars! Love the detail. I know how it is to be among friends when beer is consumed and I don’t. Hard to keep up and sometimes don’t want to stay with it either. The attempt to keep up with the passage of time as you slept was interesting. Brenda (wife) and I sleep in a two-man tent, crawling in on hands and knees. We sometimes think we’re too old for that. Better to wear out than rust out, so we’ll keep on tenting and crawling. Our first experience was Big Bend in a March that came up freezing cold and iced us in for two days. Freaky storm. We might need a wall tent, come to think of it.
Enjoyed your post and comments on the cross snatching. —Jack