Wilderness Unwired

Good planning minimizes discomfort in wilderness ventures. Small oversights can remind you that nature is always in charge. In our case, broke down, 14 miles of rocky dirt from civilization’s pavement, For Lack Of Wire.

   Fossil Creek is a rare public/private attempt to un-screw-up a beautiful place. This lush turquoise spring-fed river, recently stolen from the Apaches, began to be wrecked for electricity in 1908. The Apaches supposedly left their new power company jobs after they discovered the murderous European immigrants were making water flow uphill—more dark magic!

   As of 2005 the water flows properly, 30 million gallons a day, several miles to the Verde River, far away from “everything.” Of course the modern thieves won’t give it back to the original owners. I suspect that in some Arizona Public Service file are secret plans for a resort, condos, perhaps a nine-hole golf course with enough bulldozer work. We’ll see.

  

   Our own silly saga involved cold beer, plenty eats, laughing, splashing, and lounging, among waterfalls and blue-green pools--heaven set in hot desert. In our careless bliss we didn’t trek the few hundred yards to the big waterfall until evening, and once there, of course, had one final twilit swim. Unwise but sweet.

   The stumble back was only possible by the dim light of a cell phone. We passed our pile of stuff, had to backtrack, then it was flat dark. No worries, everybody stay together, take your time. One vicious knee scrape. My old van was alone in the dirt lot. Gritty knee scrubbed, we began the rocky washboard-y bounce home, happy tired from playing hard outside all day.

  

  

   But on the first set of switchbacks, the engine started heating quickly. By the time I found a flat-ish place to pull off, the gauge was pegged and engine hissed steam.

   The cell phone that had saved us with light was useless as a phone. “No service.” No one behind us with whom to hitch a ride or send a message. About 14 miles of bad road, and many more of pavement, from so-called civilization. Boo hoo.

   Though I repeated “Be Prepared” a thousand times as a Boy Scout, it was a lifetime of camping, backpacking, and day-tripping in remote areas that trained me in reality, sometimes unpleasantly. So we had extra food and water, tools, flashlight, basic camping gear, even plenty of beer and cigarettes. We relaxed as best we could in the desert breeze, under more stars than most city folk will ever know existed. Not-too-distant thunderstorms flashbulb-ed the scenery around us.

   By 11 p.m. I could twist my arm into the van’s guts without frying. Water poured into the radiator spilled from a spot the flashlight couldn’t see. I could feel it, but not fix it. We had to have light. It was very dark. Nothing we could do about it but laugh.

   Five people can sleep in a van, if two sleep in the front seats. We had more sleeping room than average New Delhi slum-dwellers. The dog made sure all space was utilized. This didn’t keep the cell phoner, with the help of an “energy drink” and barely-suppressed panic, from walking the road until 3 a.m., hoping the doo-dad would save the day and self. This vegetarian drinks like an alcoholic, which makes sense: how sad to never eat a hamburger again. Also noted: most women scream disturbingly if landed upon by any bug.

   Though never in any actual danger, the sudden shock of disconnection from society’s grid brought a taste of fear to some of our laughter. Go easy on us, dark and mysterious wilderness gods, we’re laughing with you, not at you!

   All participants agree that some sleep took place before the stars soon began to fade. On my back, in the dirt, I located a plastic coupling, of a kind, and in a place, that inspires mechanics to find the engineers, hunt them down, and kill them. However, it could be wired together well enough to get us home, perhaps.

   But lo! Out of laziness I had swiped the wire I keep in my toolbox for a home project. Out of further laziness I had failed to replace it. Thus, when it came time for the heroic half-ass field repair, I failed. For Lack Of Wire.

   An attempt with old hose clamps was too short. I was trying to fashion some sort of duct-tape twine when the morning’s first incoming funspeople stopped to offer help. Thank Shiva, their phone reached across the sky to worried wife, who—now that she knew which route--headed our way. More importantly, rich, they had a whole roll of wire. With a short length, more contortions, a second pair of hands, and dirty grease up to my elbow, the piece was tied into place.

   After filtering lettuce scraps and cheese nuggets out of the ice chest water, I poured it in the radiator, and it stayed. (We had enough drinking water, but we also had a long blistering day, many desert miles from the creek, if things didn’t go well.)

   I warned the gang that it might not hold, and off we bumped. Amazingly, it did, all the way home. One guy even made it to work on time. Another miraculous healing with A Piece Of Wire. I ordered a used repair manual for 98 cents off the Interzone, and will fix it right, one of these days.

  Fossil Creek is a paradise and so is doomed. People throng in summer and decorate the underbrush with poop, toilet paper, and beer cans. But on the right day you almost have it to yourselves. I’m not telling you when that is—stay the hell away!

   Gang trips to swimming holes are one sure way to cheap joy, as long as your clunker’ll make it. Days of fun and adventure, nothing we can do about this murderous world but laugh.

Surprised By Evening

There is unknown dust that is near us
Waves breaking on shores just over the hill
Trees full of birds that we have never seen
Nets drawn with dark fish.

The evening arrives; we look up and it is there
It has come through the nets of the stars
Through the tissues of the grass
Walking quietly over the asylums of the waters.

The day shall never end we think:
We have hair that seemed born for the daylight;
But at last the quiet waters of the night will rise
And our skin shall see far off as it does under water

Robert Bly