Gentiles on the Rim: a Goosefest Post-Mortem

 The Negroes in the forest brightly feathered

They are saying "forget the night
Live with us in forests of azure
Out here on the perimeter there are no stars
Out here we is stoned, immaculate.
~The WASP, Jim Morrison

We were desert mystics, my friends and I,
the kind who read maps as others read their holy books.
~How it Was, Edward Abbey

We camped on the rim of the mesa high above the hamlet of Apple Valley and the road east. On the near horizon, Smithsonian Butte rose abruptly from the desert floor like Babel's famed tower. To the north, the spectacular sandstone walls of Zion stood sentinel over the muddy Virgin River as it wends its way south to the confluence with the once-mighty Colorado. In 1869, where these waters meet, Maj. John Wesely Powell and his men emerged from a treacherous float trip through the uncharted chasm of the Grand Canyon. Back then, this was the land of the Shivwits band of the Paiute tribe. Now it is Promised Land where the saints gather. What the Mormons call New Canaan. 

Here we gathered too, although we could never be mistaken for saints. In fact most of us might be appropriately branded by the local faithful as "gentiles." I wasn't always a gentile. Through baptism, and perhaps descent, I was once, according to LDS lore, a member in good standing of one of the 12 tribes of Israel. I no longer recall which tribe specifically, but when I was a child, I received a patriarchal blessing from a holy man that revealed that important piece of genealogical trivia. Over time, however, through both choice and apostasy, I became persona non grata in the house of Israel. So I can no longer remember that critical piece of soul-preserving information.    

We were in the midst of what is euphemistically known as an Indian Summer. A periodic phenomenon when summer clings to power and refuses to cede authority to the fall. As night approached, and the heavens began to darken, a full moon replaced the warm sun that was dipping below the distant line where earth and sky merge. This particular lunar event is what they call the Hunter's Moon, a nod to both the season of slaughter and the impending winter. But it wasn't cold yet. It was quite pleasant. And there was fire anyway. There is always fire on these outings. There is something familiar and ancient and mystical about it. Even necessary. Something embedded in the intra-cellular sequences of adenine, thymine, guanine, and cytosine that conjures another time and reminds you that you were here 1000 years ago, staring into the flames with your tribesmen.   

The dogs had been here at some stage in the past too. It was programmed into their DNA. These weren't animals that you'd typically see dressed in matching sweaters and being carted around the grocery store in a purse. But they weren't seasoned outdoor dogs either. These canines were accustomed to a relative soft and comfortable life on the sofa. And yet, out here on the mesa, surrounded by pinyon and juniper and the howling of their coyote brethren, they instinctively settled into the natural rhythm of the place. They answered the call of the wild. The desert does that to a soul regardless of genus or species.

When the fire was nothing but bright orange embers and the conversation finally waned, we retreated to the camp spots we had each claimed as our own. I had selected a perfectly flat spot near the rim with unencumbered views to infinity and beyond. My compatriots sheltered in tents in the interstitial spaces between the ancient junipers. I too considered a tent. I even brought one along on the assumption that it would be used. But a tent only affords protection against rain, bugs, and an over-active imagination. The few millimeters of nylon that separates you from the outside won't help much if wild creatures decide to pay a visit. Even if you psychologically believe otherwise. And of course a tent impedes your ability to view the brilliant white moon, the glittering constellations, the dazzling array of visible celestial bodies, and the ethereal Milky Way. It also prevents you from seeing any nocturnal visitors whose aim is to maul you. I like to see the heavens when I camp. And I want to stare into the eyes of what is about to have me for dinner. The knowing is preferable to the not knowing. Even if the end result is the same. So I abandoned the tent in favor of a simple mat in the open and lay beneath Orion the Hunter while hoping to avoid his tragic, Scorpius-induced fate. 

The next couple of days and nights were perfect and gorgeous. We explored, hiked, biked, ate, drank, laughed, cursed like foul-mouthed sailors, bullshitted each other, recalled fallen compatriots, and generally relived our glory days. When it was over, I was sad it was done. As you might surmise, Goosefest isn't really about white-knuckled adventure. Even if we were still capable of that sort of thing. Instead, it's more about reconnecting with old friends, sharing stories, enjoying meals cooked out of doors, and communing with nature. Of course I like adventure as much as the next guy, but I'm already looking toward the fourth installment of this now semi-annual desert outing.

Prologue: Goosefest and the Prophet of Stoke

 

It's better to burn out than it is to rust.

~My, my, hey, hey (Into the Black), Neil Young

You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave,

find your eternity in each moment.

Fools stand on their island of opportunities

and look toward another land.

There is no other land; there is no other life than this.

~Henry David Thoreau

"What day is it?" asked Pooh.

"It's today," squeaked Piglet.

"My favorite day," said Pooh.

Winnie the Pooh, A.A. Milne

Preface to the Prologue - A Goose is Born

In the southwest corner of southern Utah, just east of the town of Hurricane, there's a sandstone plateau sandwiched between Utah State Route 9 and Utah State Route 59. The former parallels the Virgin River and takes you to the entrance to Zion National Park at Springdale. The latter tracks southeast and routes you through the polygamist enclaves of Hildale and Colorado City on the Arizona border. The island-in-the-sky sitting in the middle, which bears the moniker Gooseberry Mesa, occupies land managed by the Bureau of Land Management, and has become a mecca of sorts for the mountain-biking set. The famed Red Bull Rampage is held on the north side of the mesa annually.

In early 2021, when Covid was having its own rampage, my old pal Buzz and I decided to connect for a bit of camping under the stars. We figured even with the unending doom and gloom of the pandemic, we could pretty much stave off the rona if we were outdoors. Since my friend is in Salt Lake City and I'm in Southern California, we settled on Gooseberry Mesa as a sort of mid-point. But geography wasn't the sole determining factor. Amenities, or the lack thereof, was also important. And "The Goose" has (or doesn't have as the case may be) what we were looking for: no hassles, no authoritarian rangers, no fees, rudimentary yet acceptable bathroom facilities, grand views, big skies, good weather, campfires, and lots of open space for recreating. Perfecto!

So in April, we joined up on the mesa for a few days and nights of fraternity, outdoor indulgence, and general degeneracy. You know, all the standard stuff: biking, exploring, corn-holing, drinking, playing with fire, shooting the shit, and stuffing ourselves with epicurean delights. My daughter and a couple of our other old buddies from the past joined us and we all had a swell old time. When there was a lull in the action, Buzz kept us entertained with his humorous anecdotes, folksy mannerisms, and impersonations of famous rock-n-roll guitarists. Once the final day of the trip arrived, we had such a good time we committed to do it again the following spring. And thus, Goosefest was birthed. 

A Gathering of the Tribe

Wildsouthland and Progeny

Gray Hairs

Corn-holing on the Mesa with Dan-o

The Prophet of Stoke

Buzzard and I go back four-plus decades. We were both skiers in high school. Later in college we worked together at the Sports Stocker in Trolley Square tuning and waxing other people's skis. I never knew Buzz by any name other than Buzz and was convinced that is what his parents christened him. My wife called bullshit on that a couple of years ago and directly asked him his real name to which he replied "Brett." Then she gave me the knowing look. I was both stunned and deflated. I had never asked him the question before mainly because I had no reason to question what I otherwise knew to be true. And it never dawned on me that his name could be anything else. For 40 years I held fast to the belief that the name on his birth certificate, baptismal certificate, high school diploma, passport, and driver's license was "Buzz." And contradictory evidence aside, I'm not about abandon that fervent belief now. I'm digging in. Old fantasies die hard I suppose. 

The endearing thing about Buzzard is his sunny, gushing enthusiasm. He gets stoked about everything. Especially if it involves outdoor activities. Camping? Oh, fuck yeah! Biking? Let's get it! Skiing? Hells yeah Dude! New propane stove? Woohoo, score!!! Stone IPA in a 19.2 oz. can? Totally stoked! His reservoir of enthusiasm is deep. It's refreshing and infectious. It's not in my nature, but I find myself getting totally amped about rather ordinary things when I'm hanging out with the Prophet of Stoke.

He's also a well of wisdom. On our most recent Goosefest, we were sitting around the campfire talking about age because Buzz's birthday was right around the corner. The big 6-0. Entrance to the Golden Years. Buzz told us that every time he turns another year older, he let's go of some baggage that he's been carrying around with him. Just let's it go. Figures as he ages, he doesn't need that shit dragging him down any longer. I'd really never thought of that. I don't tend to hold onto the past. Or at least I don't think I do. From my perspective, the past is dead. No need to continually re-live it. As Tom Petty crooned, "it's time to move on, it's time to get going." I don't want or need dead grass not growing under my feet. Still, I've taken the teachings of Buzz to heart and now consciously try to let things just wash over me and then disappear down the drain. I don't always succeed, but I'm trying.

Church Services - Buzzard at the Pulpit

The Prophet Dispensing Advice to his Disciples

Goosefest 2 - Snow and Tequila

A year after the inaugural Goosefest, we returned to the scene of the crime. Some of the prior participants dropped off for this one, but we picked up the O.G. aka Super Dave to fill the gap. Buzz went down the night before we arrived to secure a site as the mesa has become quite popular and finding a good place to camp can be a challenge, even in early season. Fortunately, as Buzz was out scouring the area the following morning, he crossed paths with a group that was moving out of a very spacious site right on the rim. So as they moved out, Buzzard moved in and we were set for the weekend.

Sitting right on the rim has its advantages. The most obvious is the sublime views you get from the plateau's edge. Staring out over southern Utah's tablelands from on high really is the locus classicus of redrock desert camping. But the mesa's edge also has the breeze. That's great if your a raptor that likes to soar on thermals. It's also great when its warm as that breeze takes the hot edge off. But when its cool, the wind doesn't do anything but just makes it colder. 

And on this trip, unlike our first outing, it was cool and the weather unsettled. The desert can be fickle this time of year so I suppose it's to be expected even though we didn't expect it. But we were reminded of this the first afternoon when it snowed. Or maybe it was hail. Or sleet, whatever that is. To be honest, it was hard to tell exactly because what fell from the dark sky was kind of a mongrel form of precipitation. But regardless of its meteorological definition, we weren't prepared for it. So when the frozen pellets began dropping from the sky, we all dashed to our cars to take refuge while the storm pelted our camp. When it was finally over and safe to come outside to play again, we found the ground littered with white stuff. The snow/hail/sleet wasn't particularly wet and it didn't last long, but the warmth really never returned. It was chilly the rest of the time. 

But if the worst that can be said about your camp outing is that was it was a tad cool, how bad can it really be? So despite the less than optimal temps and occasional downpour, we still busied ourselves with riding and hiking and exploring and all manner of the typical camping whatnot. The task was made easier (or maybe harder) by the bottle of tequila that D brought along to lubricate our activities and sedate our souls. Later on while sitting around the fire, we sampled peach cobbler that Buzz cobbled together in a dutch oven. 

After the Storm

Mas Tequila

Burning Ring of Fire

Strawberry Canyon

Old Guys

October is Coming and the Goose(fest) is Getting Fatter

On the last day, we decided that an annual trip probably wasn't sufficient to scratch the itch. At our age, you have to get as much in as you can as many times as you can. Because there are no guarantees in this life. One day you're here, the next day it's done. That's happening with concerning frequency now in my demographic. People I grew up and went to school with are starting to drop. Out of the blue and into the black. It's sobering. So we decided to double our efforts and make the trip a bi-annual thing: one trip in the late spring, another in the early fall. I haven't had the chance to see these boys much over the years on account of geography, work, kids, life. So Goosefest is a fun platform to do just that. It's a reunion masquerading as a camping trip. 

Goosefest 3, the next installation of the Goose, will happen on October 6-9. A post-mortem will probably be forthcoming, but may have names changed to protect the innocent.