The following is a small excerpt from Spring, an essay I’ve been plunkering out for the last few weeks. With the White Rim centering itself in my ideological and delusional crosshairs, the following seemed appropriate:
With the coming of the sun and the warmth also comes the ritualistic worship at the altar of the most high and holy and beautiful temple nature has had the audacity to create with its temperate control of wind and heat and cold and sun and water. The White Rim. A sprawling expanse of monotony so overwhelming that it leaves one exhausted and awe-struck just gazing out at its empty void. To explore and ride through the red and the white and the blue on a bike is something akin to religious communion. A connection with the intangible and mythical and sacred. I cannot pretend to understand or to even claim primal knowledge in why that is, but the ancient and godly presence of the other and the unseen lurks in those canyons in a thick reality. The unknown Maze, the unmapped cavernous boxes of boulder and dirt and trickling, life giving streams seem to cling precariously on the edge of extermination and existence. It feels otherworldly, antiquated, primitive. And yet, being in that open and wide and amazing place is an affirmation of life and vitality and beauty that is as unique as the landscape itself.