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Imperfect Attendance

By Michael Wolcott

In the high desert near Wupatki, dawn arrives like a whispered promise. Silver creeps into the purple sky above the Navajo Reservation and the Painted Desert. Stars fade. The world seems to hold its breath.

I lie in my sleeping bag and take it in. No sound blemishes the stillness - no wind, no rustle of bird wings, no traffic on the park road a half-mile away. Shadowy, twisted junipers hunch in what looks like prayer. To the south, behind me, the pale snowy crown of the San Francisco Peaks catches the first light.
The morning is perfectly quiet. Too quiet. Lately that is how the mornings have all been - silent and lonely and full of circular, well-worn trains of thought. I came to this familiar patch of ground last night hoping to change that. For reasons that are beyond me, this particular spot - halfway down the long sweep of black sand that rolls from Sunset Crater into the Little Colorado River basin - has always been a place for hope. Two or three times a year, I come to this campsite seeking comfort. For a day or two I do almost nothing. I know of no better way to spend my time.
Sometimes I burn a fire after sunset, breathing juniper smoke as if it were oxygen, and I were a drowning man. In the mornings, the ashes remind me that some nameless, important connection has been renewed. Other times I just sit on my tailgate and watch the moon rise, then strap on a headlamp and read a book. Either way, I wake up feeling rested, nourished, and touched by grace.
Today, though, I feel nothing but the weight of silence. Soft waves of light - rose, carnelian, mother-of-pearl - rise on the horizon. Daylight spreads across the land, a few birds weave through the yellow air, but nothing relieves the oppressive calm. Still, the morning rituals unfold - I fire up the little stove, brew the black medicine, thank Whatever for Everything.
I stare north and east across 40 miles of pastel pink desert, then inspect nearby clumps of rabbit brush, blackbrush and sage - the soft grays and greens of a Navajo blanket. A fine lace of rodent tracks decorates the powdered obsidian grit next to the sleeping bag. I will myself to appreciate this beauty, but derive no pleasure from the exercise.
Behind me, I know without looking, there is a small rise 200 yards upslope. Remnants of an ancient two-room dwelling rest on the knoll. Its long-gone inhabitants looked out at this same landscape.
Their time is done, I think mechanically, mine perhaps two-thirds over. I don't want to waste another 60 seconds of it, so I take a walk. Up on the knoll, I notice the cell phone in my coat pocket and am surprised to find a signal. No one has called since yesterday. I scroll through the numbers and ring up an old friend. Scott and I seldom talk. We were once neighbors, bachelor-hermits living off the grid 20 miles from Flagstaff. We cut firewood by hand, watched winter light change on the mountains, and filled pages with words.
It's been years since Scott married and moved into town. He's glad to hear from me, but there's not much time for talk - he and his wife are on their way to the twins' school. The kids are getting an award for perfect attendance. Before hanging up, we promise to get together soon.
I sit down on what's left of a thousand-year-old wall, trying to imagine the family that once lived here - their absolute dependence on each other for survival. Then I think of how much Scott's life has changed. For a long moment, I envy him.
Though I still treasure my enormous freedom - lots of writing time and nights out at Wupatki any time I want! - sometimes I get weary of so much choice. Don't get me wrong: Obligations like the perfect attendance awards don't tantalize me. But waking up alone at Wupatki isn't everything, either.
At Wupatki, in the splendid light of another desert dawn, I find myself wondering what it might be like to be truly needed. This divide between the settled life and the wandering one is lovely and quiet, but not always peaceful.

MICHAEL WOLCOTT settles and wanders - and wanders - around Flagstaff, Ariz.