The day comes when the fulcrum of life starts tipping, slowly, toward days gone by being more than days ahead. The awareness of the limits of time, as well as the nagging suspicion that the Mayans were right, has me moving like a shark. Get busy moving or get busy dying.

With Spring temperatures soaring this past week, the call of the wild stirs within me. Dusting the winter off the old tent, I head to the hills for the first camping trip of the year.I haven’t been back to the sand dunes since I was a teenager. I remember playing “steal the flag” with my friends until late into the night, cooking hot dogs on sticks and eating mounds of smores.

Twenty five years later, and the sand dunes remain just as omnipotent. The winds have carved new faces into the slowly moving hills. With book in hand and thoughts ready to be put down on paper, I marvel on a hilltop as the sun glides slowly to the other side of the world.


The crows watch the sun set in silence, the breeze lightly whistles through the sandy canyons. On my back, I cloud bust images in the sky.
Night comes, and as the half full moon shines iridescent light on the landscape, I hike in the black sand and white brush, jumping in my own skin at the silhouette of dead trees appearing like zombies in a post apocalyptic world.

Gathering deadwood and fallen branches, I start a small fire, cook a simple meal, then dream and dance in the glowing firelight. Closing my eyes to the millions of holes to heaven illuminating the sky, the chill in the air perfectly balances my own body heat.

As the earth turns to visit those around this world, I lay in peace. I awake to early darkness and rise to watch the sun return to bathe the world once again with its rays of warmth.

2 Replies to “Little Sahara”

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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