From my first experience of the desert country, I mean a real desert…of flat, white, small-heavings of salt waves and a landscape of sand dunes that you could lose yourself within, was in my twenties––as I escaped the busyness of Manhattan in the belly of a Greyhound bus toward California.

From my first experience of the desert country, I mean a real desert…of flat, white, small-heavings of salt waves and a landscape of sand dunes that you could lose yourself within, was in my twenties––as I escaped the busyness of Manhattan in the belly of a Greyhound bus toward California.

I was looking to start over. To let go of my dreams of creating a successful career in show business––to start again as a college student of something else that might afford me some promise of fulfillment or at the very least, some measure of income. I was broke with only a suitcase of belongings.

The bus trip alone was an adventure. On a hundred mile night-drive toward Flagstaff, Arizona, I was having sex in the back of the bus with a west bound girl from Jersey––a couple of sweaters and a darkened bus for sleeping passengers our blanket for a modicum of privacy––although privacy was the least of our concern. We had the whole back seat across the bus to ourselves. It was thrilling!

We decided a stopover at a hotel in Flagstaff would spare us the embarrassment of being thrown off the bus, besides that, neither of us had ever been here before, and we could continue our bus trip in another day or two.

During the night, trains announcing their arrival at the station outside our open window, with horns ‘whistling-off’ a blaring wail, seemed to also announce our own arrivals. We laughed a lot…then fell asleep to the clattering of train on track.

In the morning, we hopped on a bus to the Grand Canyon, because I’d never been there. Captured by the canyon’s spectacular splendor, I decided we’d be able to walk down the narrow trail to the bottom and back––in my street shoes, with only water. “Look, I can see the bottom,” I called out to her with hopes of convincing her to join me. Not smart! Not the bottom. But we did make it half way, covered in dust and mule farts from the horses and mule trains that took over the dusty trail when passing hikers.

I was now officially getting some experience with what not to do on western trails. I think my short-term companion ended her trip with me thereafter. She continued on to California and I got a ride to, Death Valley. I had to see this.

My first experience of Death Valley, the expansive salt flats for as far as I could see in all directions, started after I wrapped a towel around my head for sun protection and walked into it, a mile, or so, until the road I was on disappeared. At high-noon, heat waves rising in ribbons around me, my heart beating the only sound, the whiteness so brilliant my sunglasses seemed useless. I stood there: arms outstretched, and seared myself into what first appeared as a space of nothingness. But then, as I studied the vacancy, I began to see more. This experience altered me…and my appreciation for emptiness, and my experience with desert wildness.

For fifty years afterward, I nourished the fantasy of hiking the one hundred fifty mile-long length of Death Valley, through a multitude of landscapes. But instead, over the years, I’ve taken many shorter trips. I introduced former wives, lovers, (all of whom supported my passion), Dagma, and most of our eight children and nine grandchildren to the wonder, variety and specialness of Death Valley; the hottest, driest place in North America.

I requested of each that, they too, walk by themselves into the vastness so they might have the visual experience of being alone, to focus on the details of their surroundings, their conscious catch of a passing breeze, or a bug. (With me close behind, of course).

I encouraged each one to be aware of their inner landscape as well: their breathing, the tempo of their heart beating, their sense of smell, sense of direction, how their skin feels with a sprinkle of flying salt crystals...their truth. Yes, we went for refreshing drinks and a meal and a cool ice cream dessert––not desert––afterward.

And many times, with Dagma joining me on middle-of-the-night drives for the prize: of springtime bloom, of first light and sunrise on the Valley floor or from a distant mountainside, or an early morning in the dunes to wait and watch the sun crawl like a hungry cat over sand waves into dark corners, to photograph and snuggle into for meditation or run upon…after the rodents, beetles, mammals and snakes retreat. (Yikes!) Dagma and the rattlesnake story…later.

I imagine, the experience of Death Valley is the closest I will get to being ‘Lawrence of Arabia’. And that’s a good thing!