Nevada Nights

Okay, so I was born and raised in Ohio and had been surrounded by corn fields and good friends for the entirety of my short life. I was the golden boy, loved by everyone. My friends cherished me and my wit, my teachers loved me and my parents adored me. I could do no wrong and had a chip on my shoulder to prove it; I felt I was entitled to the ease of happiness and everything that came along with it. Eventually, we left our small farm town and moved to a place the locals referred to as Dayton Nevada. I however like to think of it as the arm pit of America. The land and wildlife were amazing, it was the local human population that provided the town with its peculiar and rather unpleasant odor. You see our family moved there because my father was an aerospace engineer and got a job offer from a company that had just moved into Nevada from California.

The locals however were resentful toward the new arrivals. The town prior to its economic boom had a population of about two hundred and they were primarily prostitutes, card dealers and prison guards from the local state prison. They lived in a series of trailer parks and were surrounded by the detritus of poverty; broken cars, piles of trash and dirty satellite dishes. They were upset about all the new "yuppies" that had moved in. The price of a drink at the local watering hole had gone up considerably with the increase in the local socioeconomic status. Those adult attitudes towards their new neighbors soon found its way from the lips of parents and into the fists of their children.

I found myself constantly fighting not just with my junior high-peers but with high-school kids. I came away with more than my daily recommended dose of bloodied noses and bruised cheeks, but I always like to think I made an effort to give as good as I got. If I couldn’t beat them back with my fists then I would use my words. I would think of the most humiliating and degrading insults I could call out as I was being beaten. I could unleash a tirade of graphic insults calling in to question everything from their clothes to incestuous relationships. I would look and see what comments hurt the most and use them as I would my fists. It wasn’t long afterwards that I found myself very much alone.

In the summer things were much more pleasant, being away from school was a welcome respite from my classmates. The trade off was the day-time temperature would get up to over 115` at mid-day. As a result I spent my days sleeping in a pleasantly air conditioned bedroom. At night my folks let me roam and explore the desert around our home. We lived on the edge of a housing development that was surrounded by the desert and mountain foothills. I would wake up in the early evening and eat dinner with my good ole mom and dad. By 6:00 I was out the door walking through the evening desert. I would walk through the sage brush for hours and watch the red sun turn orange as it set behind the Sierras turning the blistering daytime heat off and cooling into something pleasant. Most nights there was heat lighting bouncing above the peaks; that was an amazing sight. The orange sun having heated the air with its energy until it couldn’t hold anymore letting it go in a series of flashes that look like God's own eyes were blinking.

I would walk through the night, and I would carry a small riffle. I like to think I am pretty smart and know enough to hide from anyone I happened across while wandering through the desert at night. I had seen people on more than one occasion usually from pretty far off. Now being a naive tender thirteen I must admit to having had many romantic notions of using my little gun as protection not from critters but poachers and rustlers. Telling myself I could shoot a rustler if they came after me. And before you roll your eyes let me tell you that yes there are still rustlers alive and well in Nevada. There were and are thousands of square miles of open grazing land owned by the government. It was and is pretty unregulated and things simply tend to happen out in the desert late at night away from the eyes of law enforcement.

Now just a word of advice; if you find yourself wandering the desert at 2:30 in the morning and happen to be watching several men loading cows into a trailer they are most likely up to no good. I can remember on that occasion hunching behind sage brush holding my breath afraid of being seen. The small rifle held tight in my sweaty hands with thoughts of what could happen if I were caught. Part of my mind wanting to be caught, chased, hurt, or killed; I don’t know. But I do know I cringed behind that sage bush with my confused, desperate and lonely thoughts and watched a group of harsh talking men with even harsher lights yell at each other in the cold desert air as they cajoled cattle up a ramp and into a trailer.

I always carried a flash light; but I preferred to use the moon light instead. See in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night a single flashlight beam can make you feel very small and insignificant in comparison to the world around you. I could look at the dark desert and feel like a part of everything, but the moment I used my light I was apart, separate and no longer connected. In the dark I was one of a million things moving with or without purpose.

I also had a small compass and USGS map, I didn't ever need to use them because I could always find town by looking at the mountain sides. A large part of me wanted to be lost, to never see that town again. To be swallowed up by the giant darkness of the desert.

Now in that part of Nevada all the towns have their initials written on them with large white painted stones. Perhaps it is a practice not just limited to that part of Nevada but I know that indeed there was a giant letter D marking the town for all to see. I knew that high school seniors go up and paint them every year as some sort of community service. I would see that damn letter and think of those laughing kids, working in the sun with their white paint and brushes. Then I would think of how I wouldn’t be allowed to laugh with them, because I would be the one they were laughing at. Hate and anger would boil up and I would sit and cry for my self. I would squat there seething in self-loathing and self-pity crying the thirteen year old tears of a confused and angry kid. All along knowing I was alone and hoping I didn’t die alone, unwanted and unappreciated hoping someone would chose to be a friend. Letting the tears drip from my face and seeing how the tears hit the sand. Those salty tears would smack the sand and then clump up. It clumps; even the grains of sand had friends.

There were times when I would get into a gully or on the back side of one of the foothills and loose sight of the giant white D; that letter painted by laughing faces that would never look like mine, the letter that taunts me calling be back to that place of isolation and I would just kept going; feeling the sand crunch and the crust give way under my feet as I walked on. Letting the steps disappear behind me as I tried to walk away from my loneliness. With each track I made in the sand I told my self I was working to empty my heart, but really longing for friendship. The smells, the sights and sounds of the desert filling that void like a substitute. Leaving me feeling like a man drinking water when what he really wants is a beer.

I can still remember the pungent smell of dew as it would begin to evaporate off the sage brush; filling my nose until I couldn’t think of anything else. My brain shut off all the other senses and I would let the smell of sage overwhelm me. Even today I can almost feel the pain of tumble weed thorns imbedding themselves in my sock. Right bellow the top of my boot, scratching my skin. Every pace with a thorn in my sock was like a symbol of the pain I felt in my heart. If I didn’t stop soon enough then the scratches would get deep enough to bleed. Then the itching that followed would remind me that I was alone; alone and in pain.

One of my favorite memories was of standing still and using my ears to follow the sounds of coyote howls from ridge to ridge. The first time I heard a coyote I imagined him sitting alone on his haunches calling out to everyone and no one at the same time. Letting his songs go towards the moon with no one to listen to them no one to care for them. I could almost feel the solitude as he cried; I felt a kinship with that one. I thought if they can live alone then I could live alone; I didn’t need anyone, I could be like a coyote, alone, insulated, on my own. That was until his calls were answered as they always are. Where was my answer? Who would hear my song?

I can remember one night it must have been late August I was scared because school was going to start soon. I could walk though the desert night and have no fear, but the thought of homeroom and lunchtime were more than I could bear. It must have been about an hour before sunrise. I was climbing the gentle slope of a mountain side and I walked down into a gully. The wind was blowing gently in my face I was engrossed in the aroma of the night, sage, sand, moisture they all surrounded my head like an army breaching a castle wall. It was pounding into my brain and I was once again filling my soul with something to replace acceptance. I was so deep in my own little world that I found myself standing in the middle of a small herd of wild mustang. It was amazing, I could hardly breathe; in the day they are quick and fearful, if you can get within two hundred meters you can count yourself lucky. And here I was standing within several feet of the most beautiful horses you have ever seen.

I must have stood there for a few moments before the sentry horse caught my scent and woke the herd. I was nearly trampled, but it was worth it, those few seconds seemed like an entire lifetime. The sound of dozens of hooves pounding on hard pan desert floor, the angry breath and cries of startled horses imprinted in my mind like the red hot brand of a cattleman. In that instant I saw the power of friendship I saw the importance of family and the responsibility of acceptance. I knew then that if I wanted to be accepted then I needed to stop walking alone and start walking with others. The single horse that woke the herd, the coyote that sings to its friends and the harsh men in the night all knew something I didn’t; you can’t do everything alone, we all need others and if I was going to get along in the world I would need to start by taking a deep look at myself and see what I needed to change to be accepted.

It was not easy and I will be honest I was very lonely for the rest of the time I lived in Nevada. I did seriously consider suicide and I thought long and hard about the kind of person I wanted to be. In a way I did commit suicide and successfully, the boy I was when I moved to Nevada died in the desert. He was replaced with a humble and self-effacing young man who saw his place in the world a little more clearly.

I accepted responsibility and worked to make amends for the things I did and the words I used that hurt. I was never able to be accepted or happy the way I wanted while living in Nevada but as with all things in life that too changed, when we moved to Seattle. I was given a clean slate. I wish I could say it was easy, that I learned everything I needed to learn and I was perfectly happy in my new home; that would be a fairy tale and that isn’t the way the world works. I had been lonely at times since then but I have never felt the depth of despair and isolation I had while in the desert. While I will always cherish the memories I have of my nights in Nevada the urge and my need to walk alone is gone as is my loneliness.