Walking Through The Desert with My Eyes Closed

I initially traveled to the desert each year as a way to explore a beautiful, often inhospitable landscape. However, after a few years of annual sojourns it became clear that I was drawn to barren landscapes because they were exquisitely designed environments where I could be utterly alone, with no human sounds to distract me. I had lost both my parents and the land became a metaphor for my loss.

Today, I live in the high desert of Central Oregon. While hiking, I ponder the marks humans make—those that are temporary (footsteps in the sand), those that are designed to be useful (trailhead signs) and those that destroy (graffiti on petroglyphs, vandalism). I feel vulnerable and insignificant with my backpack and water, yet cognizant that I can do much harm if I choose.

The desert is a place where loss is evident even while life continues to adapt and survive. Walking explores the fragility of life as I see it while making my way through barren landscapes. I’m thinking about the literal and metaphorical evidence that we leave behind.