Zen and the Art of Desert Appreciation

I'm a happy denizen of the desert, delighted by gnarly cacti, an abundance of tough creatures, and a lot of exposed rock – but I will admit that the desert is not for everyone. In fact, when I was a kid, I used to dream of living in a greener place. That was because I had never been to one of those greener places in the winter, and it was also before I had developed my passion for geology and its attendant dislike of landscapes that are “haired over” with green stuff that blocks my view of the rocks. Yet though my love of the desert has its scientific, geological/botanical side, there is another dimension to it as well, and that dimension is zen.

Zen is not a concept many people readily connect to the Sonoran Desert. Most folks picture garden shrines, moss-covered rocks, sapphire-blue pools and waterfalls when they think of zen (if they think of it at all). People don't tend to picture saguaros with twisted limbs and shattered, metamorphic-core mountains. But I would argue that zen is first thing you should think of when you're in a desert – especially in the summertime. When you are being blasted by that apocalyptic heat, in order to survive you sometimes have to stop thinking. You must simply be; it's the only way to endure the discomfort with any kind of patience. And that is a state of mind that usually only zen masters can achieve. That zen state of mind is the reason I was able to go beyond my scientific fascination with the desert and actually love the desert.

It was only when I was able to get past my discomfort, to sit quietly and observe the world around me, that I could see what was happening.

It wasn't until I shut down the noise in my head that I noticed the silence in the desert was full of sound and the emptiness was full of life. This is the sort of revelation that comes to you when it's 117° F, and you're sitting in the shade (where it's only about 105° F), sipping a Mega Gulp, thinking Wow – I could die out here, and suddenly you hear a bug that sounds like a tuning fork. That bug only makes that noise in the hottest, driest part of the summer, in the middle of the day. If you're in the right state of mind, that sound resonates with your soul.

For some folks, one hot day that forces them to cling to life via a Big Gulp (at least 64 ounces worth) is enough to put them off deserts forever. But for some of us oddballs, it's like the gateway drug to a life of fascination with things gnarly, pointy, dry, and hot.

Here in Phoenix, Arizona, a desert junkie has many places in which she can satisfy her cravings. One of my favorites is White Tanks Regional Park. The White Tanks are a metamorphic core complex, meaning that early deposits of igneous and metamorphic rocks were altered by upwellings of new molten material, in this case in the mid-Tertiary period. The park is a haven for saguaros, petroglyphs, hikers, school field trippers, and mountain lions (not all in the same bus, of course).

The hikes range from fairly easy to very challenging (the latter being the ones on which you could conceivably encounter the mountain lion). The best time to do them is from Mid October to mid April. Take a LOT of water if you're planning to hike for more than an hour, and if you're going any significant distance from the trail heads that have water fountains. Ernie and I usually take 1 ½ gallons of water each, (technically, we take 1-liter bottles, 3 to 4 apiece).

And don't forget to take a camera! It'll give you an excuse to stop and catch your breath at regular intervals.

After all, zen only lasts so long. And then you need a Big Gulp.

Artifacts Wacky and Sublime

If there is one thing I despise, it's the trend of ticky-tacky housing developments in most of the formerly wild, empty places in Arizona between cities. This is one of the things going through my mind as Ernie and I drive up Cave Creek road from Phoenix toward the city of Cave Creek. I love the empty, pristine deserts that still reign throughout most of the Basin and Range Province; it is in this God-forsaken desolation that, perversely, I feel closest to God. How could I do otherwise in this perfect silence, broken only by the cries of cactus wrens, quails, and mourning doves? Though I like to visit the pines from time to time, they can't compete with my Uncle Saguaro and Aunt Cholla.

Yet, as we motor north-east from Phoenix, I get a kick out of the older shops and buildings we can see from the road. Many of them are from an earlier era, and it's like traveling in a time machine. Like many people who no longer remember the Bad Stuff, I have fond memories of the 50s, 60s, and 70s. But in my defense, this is partly because of the wackiness of those times, and the interesting artifacts they've left behind.

The town of Cave Creek is one of those artifacts. It was founded by people who truly love the desert, and because many of them used to be real estate moguls, they're extremely canny about preserving what they love. One of their greatest accomplishments is the Cave Creek Regional Park, a lovely preserve that was destined to be another ticky-tacky development until the citizens of Cave Creek intervened. Now it has a nifty visitor's center and several beautiful trails where you can hike or go horseback riding while enjoying gorgeous views. We took a trail that looped around Vulture Mountain and back again, a hike of about an hour-an-a-half. Here is the dust of the trail on my shoe.

From there we headed into Cave Creek to visit some of our favorite haunts.  First, Buffalo Bill's, a shop built on a hillside.  The merchandise (pots and garden items) is displayed on terraces out back, giving the place a magical quality.

Next we ate at El Encanto, which has the best mole sauce in the known galaxy.

And finally, we shopped at The Town Dump, where several arcane and delightful items were purchased.

So my friends, you can keep New York, San Francisco, and Paris.  We've got Cave Creek and Vulture Mountain.  You just can't top that.

Sedona Through Time

Sedona Through Time (3^rd edition), by Wayne Ranney, is the third book in what I like to call Ranney's Rock Trilogy. Book One, Ancient Landscapes Of The Colorado Plateau (co-written with Ron Blakey), takes us step-by-step through the landscape changes in the Four Corners area, beautifully illustrating each geologic occurrence with Paleogeographic maps. Book Two, Carving Grand Canyon, zooms in on the most breathtaking landform in North America, delving into a lesser-known feature called the Mogollon Highlands, which turns out to be one of the major forces in the formation of the Grand Canyon and of Sedona, the focus of Book Three.

By the time you read Sedona Through Time, you've got a much better idea of how the layers in Sedona formed, because they are many of the same layers present in the Grand Canyon. But once you go Southeast to Sedona, those layers have changed a bit in character, and some unique features appear, like the Schnebly Hill Formation. The helpful diagrams, maps, and photographs that are present in Books One & Two of Ranney's Rock Trilogy are also present in Book Three, and they are very effective in illustrating the geologic events that created Sedona.

Anyone who visits Sedona and nearby Oak Creek Canyon is struck by their beauty and serenity. They possess a profound spirit that is as beautiful as what you can experience in the Grand Canyon, but is much more up-close and personal. Having some knowledge of what the rocks are and how they got there enhances that experience. For visitors whose curiosity is piqued, the book also includes a point-by-point road and trail guide. So take it with you when you visit – you'll see Sedona and Oak Creek Canyon as you've never seen them before.   

Exploring A Grand Mystery

Carving Grand Canyon: Evidence, Theory, and Mystery, by Wayne Ranney, is the next logical book to read after the one he co-wrote with Ron Blakey, Ancient Landscapes of the Colorado Plateau. In Ancient Landscapes, the authors describe the environments in which the layers of the Colorado Plateau formed and illustrate those concepts with paleogeographic maps. As you study those maps, you can't help but try to impose the Grand Canyon on them, since it's the feature that best exposes the layers. At what point, you may wonder, does the canyon begin to be carved?

Carving Grand Canyon is the best answer to that question. It narrates the attempt by geologists to formulate a unified theory of how the Grand Canyon formed and how long it took to do so. Once you've started reading it you'll realize that theory is – complicated.

Fortunately, it's also fascinating – a story of rivers and basins, faults and frost wedging, lava flows and karst collapse, personalities and plate tectonics. If you look at a map of the Canyon, from Lee's Ferry to Grand Wash Cliffs, you may suspect that it's not simply a question of how old the Colorado River is (though that's the most pertinent question). It's a question of what else can happen in a region that large, over millions of years during which several unique conditions persist.

One of the most interesting controversies is whether a paleocanyon may have existed, one that continued to be cut down to current levels in parts of the Grand Canyon. The graphic on page 124 beautifully illustrates the argument that a paleocanyon existed in Mesozoic layers above Eastern Grand Canyon that have since eroded away. The relatively new study of karst collapse near the Kaibab Upwarp also sheds some light on the mystery of how the river cut through the southern tip of the upwarp.

This book is for people whose curiosity burns when they look at the Grand Canyon, trained geologists and armchair geologists alike. It is lavishly illustrated with photographs, cross-sections, maps (some of which are paleogeographic), and diagrams that make the text clear and easy to understand. It offers a coherent answer to a question that is far more complicated than it seems. And best of all, it sparks as much curiosity as it satisfies. Buy two copies – one for your reference library, and one to take with you as you explore Grand Canyon, a place with enough wonder to fill a lifetime.

Paleogeographic Maps Are Fabulous

Think of the nerdiest comic book fan drooling over his favorite graphic novel - that's how I look when I have this book in my hands. As a geology student who lives in Arizona, I have good reason to be such a geek. Every time I visit the Colorado Plateau, I have a thousand questions about how the strata formed. This book answers most of those questions, and illustrates those answers beautifully with diagrams, cross-section charts, photographs, and "paleogeographic maps." Those maps allow the reader to see what the area may have looked like in the past, from the last part of the Precambrian Era, 1.7 billion years ago, through the Mesozoic with its dinosaurs, to the the Cenozoic and our present epoch. If you've ever tried to visualize the supercontinents, or what the Four Corners area may have looked like when it was turned on its side and hugging the equator, the paleogeographic maps are hugely helpful.

Readers who are more interested in archaeology will gain some perspective as to why the ruins in the Southwest are unique - we've got the perfect strata for canyons, creeks, and cliff dwellings. And anyone who would like more background on the geology of their favorite National Park on the Colorado Plateau will find this book handy. As for me, I'm a happy geek pouring over the details of how each layer was formed and where it's exposed in this landscape I love so much. I will refer to this book again again, until it falls apart and I have to get another one. It's money well spent.