A couple of weeks ago, I wandered out into the desert outside of Barstow with Tyree. We parked at the head of a canyon. My goal was to hike down a jeep trail which ran along side the canyon, cross the valley and visit an old quarry and a little further on an old mine. It was the Friday of Thanksgiving weekend. I expected more motorcycles, ATVs and such. There was quite a bit of human traffic on the main jeep trails: packs of motorcycles and ATVs driven by kids --groups of 10-15 were norm, though a group of 25 cruised by. A couple of hunters, too whose periodic shotgun blasts punctuated the day. I knew all of these would be there -- prepared myself.

Given my frame of mind, I was looking for a little peace and illumination. Of course, a burning bush or some golden tablets would have been welcome.

Ty and I followed an old jeep trail which headed up the side of the canyon and towards the top of a hill. It ran out quickly at the top. My options were to double back, cut down to a 4 wheel drive road I had driven down once, or take my chances cutting down the steep side of the canyon. In Typee, "There is scarcely anything a man is in difficulties that he is more disposed to look upon with abhorrence than a right-about retrograde movement--a systematic going over the already trodden ground; and especially if he has a love of adventure, such a course appears indescribably repulsive, so long as there remains the least hope to be derived from braving untried difficulties." I never want to be retrograde-- and, well, am usually willing for an adventure. Tyree and I slowly angled our way down to the canyon floor -- approximately a thousand to fifteen hundred feet (but I suck at reading topographical maps). We hit the canyon floor with minor difficulties, Tyree would periodically check to see if this steep scrambling was necessary. We hiked down stream. We crossed numerous veins of common opal: some white, mostly a light green striped with some eyes of a translucent brown. I kneeled down to work a vein of light green, put my hand on a boulder of white opal-- well the side of the boulder was an exposed vein about 1/4 inch think, bright and shiny. The only sounds were my hammer and chisel; Tyree's panting when he came close to get some water. I would pause and listen. Silence. Pause. A plane. Pause Silence. Pause. ATVS or Motorcycles. Pause. Silence. Pause. Shotgun blast. No relevations. A large fly -- 1/2 inch long; reddish hear, black and white striped body would buzz me every time I hammered. Guess the vibrations in the rock annoyed it. When I stopped, it would fly away. I hammered, got buzzed (by the fly), paused, and stopped. I packed up and headed downstream. There not six or seven feet away: a petroglyph, serious rock art. Mountain goat/Question mark/Antelope -- hell--what did I find. Revelation? Clearly not so ancient; at least not the question mark. On another rock close by a stick figure. No revelation. Although the question mark certainly suggests a choice--> We create revelation --> the fly buzzing as I worked the vein could lead to a discussion of work and silence, but I am not ready to go there yet.

I have been trying to write a post to follow my first one. The writing takes place in my head rather than on paper or here. Part of what disturbs me about the incident of the last post -- is my own sense of the need for spirituality or belief or faith or something. I wanted to stand up, I wanted to embrace a spiritual something beyond me.

I think of Hawthorne commenting on Melville after they talked in Liverpool when Melville visited Nat there. Hawthorne said to the effect that Melville devled deeply into spiritual manners. I won't say I am Melvillian in my search. But I am interested in the security that belief provides. Key to my own conceptions/doctrines are the belief that each person's relationship to belief belongs to them and them alone. No one can dictate belief or how to belief. It is why I have never felt comfortable organized religion. I don't believe that I can be told how and who to worship. To be told I have to believe one man's version of Jesus kills me -- just kills me. When I see what has been done in the name of organized religion, I can't believe.

Last week I attended a memorial service for a very bright, generous and capable young woman. The friends who spoke at the service highlighted wonderful details about her which captured my own sense of her. We celebrated her life and how she managed to touch each one of us. The closing prayer changed that moment. The Reverand stood up and demand we come forward and be saved. We need to accept Jesus Christ as our savior and we needed to do it right then. He said it did not matter if we were Catholic or something else. Only Jesus, his Jesus would lead us to salvation. It was terrifying. I watch around 40 people clammer out of their seats and go forward. He kept calling and calling. Finally, he asked them if they accepted Jesus as their savior. They responded. He stood in front of all of us and said Jesus took these two young people so he could save 40 others.

The cost benefit discussion disturbed me. It frustrated me. This blog will heopfully serve as a means to communicate; to articulate for myself and for others. I turn to Melville and to Montaigne as my guides. Sounds pretentious doesn't it. But both men have served as mentors and as solace ---