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PROSE
08-15-02023

I was foolish to expect an open campsite on Spring weekend in Joshua Tree, but after 10 hours on the motorcycle—over which I nearly ran out of gas twice—this lapse in foresight hit my ego hard.

I cut the bike's engine as the ranger, through her little kiosk window, explained to me the best—only—camping option in the town of Twentynine Palms.

“ . . . so, once you're past the trailer park you’ll start seeing old mining roads head out south toward the mountains. That’s all Bureau land, you can camp wherever you like out there.”

I thanked her, dropped into 1st gear and made a shaky U-turn. As I did, the ranger shouted, “Hey sister! Try and find a place out of sight!”

This was my first motorcycle, an orange and black KTM with 22 thousand on the odometer and the patina of an old traffic cone. The machine was a hard jux to my slick new ride-jacket and pants—garments devoid of the hard won mileage and patina of the KTM. I felt like a fraud, size petite.

The mining road was easy enough to find, but the ranger hadn’t mentioned it was unpaved—yet another thing I should have expected. The bike could handle trail work, but I’d only had a chance to putt-putt around a dirt lot behind my house in Tucson. I made my wobbly way though, feeling like I had since I set out this morning… like I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing.

After 10 minutes of riding—with all the grace of a beach drunk—I sped up a short hill that opened onto a flat top about the size of two tennis courts.

I kicked the side-stand and swung off the bike to have a poke around. The flat was peppered with the remnants of some bygone rowdy bro-down. Beer cans, bottles, a lidless plastic cooler, the crisped remnants of a bonfire, and, beyond that, black trunk.

I walked over. It was an old steamer; looking like a thing that arrived in this desert via Ellis Island. The lid was in the dirt, ripped off its hinges. The inside was empty, but upholstered with dust brown fur. I ran my hand across it. It felt soft and oily, but not old. It was as alive as my own unkempt pixie mop.



It was a charming curiosity and I felt wrong about leaving its fur open to the elements. I picked up the lid and fitted it back on top. A bronze plate about the size of a playing card was riveted to the center. Etched into it was a goat. Thick horns spiraling up off its head and face wore a slight I-know-something-you-don’t-know grin.

I’d a thing for goats. My dad kept goats at his home outside Asheville. As a kid, on those obligatory father-daughter visitations, I looked forward to hanging with them more than him. They were such joyous fuckers, and such strange eyes. Eyes looking everywhere and nowhere.

Feeling whimsical, I kissed my fingers and planted them on the goat.

There was a stone wall on the far side of the flat, some abandoned bit of mining infrastructure maybe. It would make a good wind break. I rode the KTM over and started making camp behind it, out of sight. Half an hour later, I heard the sound of an engine coming. I peeked over the wall. A worse-for-ware Jeep Wrangler crested the hill, skidding to a stop just short of the trunk. A short, leathery looking lady in a red tank and daisy-dukes climbed out of the driver seat, leaving a crew-cut man in wrap-around shades sitting passenger side. She walked around the Jeep, kicking bottles and staring out at the hills. The man's gaze followed her like a hungry doberman.

Behind the wall, I weighed my options. If they u-turned and went back the way they came, they wouldn’t notice me. But I was right next to the road going down the other side. If they drove that way, they’d see me and wonder what this weirdo was hiding for. Which had me thinking, ‘what was this weirdo hiding for?’ Buying the bike and taking this trip was about being brave; about saying YES and pushing up against any scarys.

I decided to go make nice.



Walking out from behind the wall, I shouted, “Howdy,” thinking it was the type of situation that called for a warm howdy over a hello. Both their heads jerked up and regarded me for a hard five seconds of silence. Then, the leathery lady opens up like a machine gun.

“Is this your mess, Wild Man!? *SNIFF you think this is cool Wild Man, messin’ it up out here!? Soiling our desert, the Lord’s desert? Trashing Arcadia Wild Man!? *SNIFF we are sick to graves of cleaning up your fucking messes!”

My hands shout up, wind-wipering side to side to convey—in that unthreatening way—that one has it all wrong.

“Noooo, no, no. None of this is my mess. I just came up here on my motorcycle over there to camp for the night. I couldn’t have carried all this trash if I tried.”

They both stared at me again, her face scrunching up in frequent sniffs. His, silent behind the shades. Then they stared at each other and I sensed a noiseless deliberation.

He gave a nod.

“I’m sorry sister *SNIFF. Thought you were a Wild Man. *SNIFF we get wild men up here, you know. And, well, as warriors of Christ, it's our job to protect his kingdom.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” I said, buying time for a better reply. “I bet kids throw big parties up here on weekends,” I said.




“Kids?” She replied. “Maybe, *SNIFF once in a while, but we’re all the Lord’s children, right?”

She asked in a way that made me feel like a great deal rode on my answer.

“Yes, um… that we are,” I said.

She looked back at the man. He gave another nod.

“Well you're welcome to camp here *SNIFF sister. Sorry if we scared ya. *SNIFF we thought you were a Wild Man is all.”

I tried not to take offense, With my short haircut and all this bulky motogear on, I knew I looked boyish. I hoped I did actually.

“Nope, just a camper out here enjoying the desert,” I said.

“Ahem, this desert takes care of us. We’re out here looking for gold.” She raised a thin arm and pointed south. “You see over there, those black holes in the mountain side? Those are old gold mines.”

“You find gold in those?” I asked, relieved to move on to a—slightly—sane subject.

“*SNIFF oh yes,” she said. “We walk into that darkness all lit on Lord and come out with *SNIFF nuggets as big as baby finger bones. We need all the gold we can find to buy our *SNIFF sacrament.”

“GOOF!” the man in the Jeep shouted. She winced like a lash struck her back.

“*SNIFF Well, sleep well.” She said, and ran back to the Jeep.

“Thanks,” I said back. “Have uh, a nice evening.” Then added, “God bless.”

Goof scurried back to the Jeep, and I watched them speed down the road past my little camp. The man in shades stared into me as they passed, crucifixes scratched crudely into the lenses.




It was near dark by the time I felt mellow again. I cooked a can of lentil soup and watched the full moon rise, telling myself the fear was part of this trip.

I fell asleep thinking of goats, and little gold finger bones.

*KaPAAOOW!

The explosion wakes me up like a jumper cable to the nipple.

“Wakey, wakey, beg the achy, *SNIFF the night is long and life is fleeting!”

*KaPAAOOW!

The roof of my tent tore away like a beer can pop top. I can see the moon, until a leathery face eclipses it. I scramble out the back flap and into the barrel of a shotgun.

Somewhere behind me, Goof rambles.




“*SNIFF =Oh you had me fooled Wild Man, but I’m dumb as Eve *SNIFF and you got a serpent’s tongue on ya. You’d couldn’t fool Speedball though,  *SNIFF nothing fools Speedball.”

I looked up the barrel and into the crucifixes shades.

“Speedball knew straight away you were a Wild Man, Wild Man.”

The man nestles the barrel over my nose. It smells like a freshly sharpened pencil. He jerked his head right.

“WALK!”

“*SNIFF you thought you could fuck off with our gold? With the Lord’s gold? *SNIFF Well, Wild Man, we're fucking off with your bike. A tithing for our *SNIFF sacrament.”

The man walked me towards the Jeep. The high beams are blinding.




“Ta…, ta-take… take it,” I said. “The keys are, are in the ignition…”

“STOP!” said the man.

Goof climbs on the Jeep’s hood like it's a stage. Near her, I hear a gentle hum.

“Ta-ta-ta take them we will, Wild Man.*SNIFF Now accept Christ, because you're in the valley of the shadow now. *SNIFF Accept Christ and we may even bury ya deep enough to dodge the coyotes. Stuff ya up the Earth’s cunt, just like you Wild Men like it.”

“KNEES!”

The barrel hit me on my crown chakra and I dropped. I decided to go on an adventure, huh? A fraud, ladies size petite. What was I out here to prove? I guess I wanted to do something hard, something with stakes. Well, here they were. The stakes. I’ll die a fool in a brand new jacket, blood clotting in my brow.

The hum wasn’t gentle anymore, it was growing into a growl. The man looked towards Goof and I knew they heard it too.

“Speedie? *SNIFF what’s that, Speedie?”

Roaring now; everywhere and maddening. And rattling too. Coming from the black trunk. We all looked at it at once. It's shaking.

“*SNIFF… Speedie?”

I howled then, or, something howled through me. I howled and launched out like a crouched jungle cat, tackling the man around the middle and pounding him to the dirt.



*KaPOOOOM!

“AHHHHHH! AHH, AHH, AHHHHHH!”

The man was screaming, his face was steak tartare. The lens of his glasses had shattered. One eye was pulp, the other shined out the red mess wild and terrified.

AHH, AHHHHHH!”

“SPEEDIE! SPEEDIE! WHAT THE FUCK YOU DO TO HIM?!”

I crab crawled back from him, heels pushing the dirt. The shotgun lay between us with its barrel bent, shreds of metal jutting out its back like bones out of a war wound.

*Vuuuuum BOOM!

A torrent of dust shot out of the trunk, spiraling above and around us, then coalescing into a two-story humanoid storm. The man was being dragged towards it by an invisible tug, screaming and screaming.




“Call him off Wild Man! We’re sorry, we’re sorry! Speedie, tell me what’s happening Speedie.”

His screams fade as he disappears into grinding dust beneath the looming storm creature. It stands taller then, horns spiraling out its head like twin tornadoes. It begins walking in dark billowing paces toward Goof and the Jeep.

“Lord God, call him off, protect me Lord, No-No-NO-NO, AHHHHHH!”

I ran to the KTM as Goof’s cries too, faded into the roar. In a riot of muscle memory I got the bike started and blasted down the road. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw the beast fully rendered, horns spiraling, eyes glowing, and a slight grin.

I-know-something-you-don’t-know

Then I went over the handlebars.



I woke up just before dawn, splayed out a few feet from my bike, my head pounding. I forgot to kick the side stand up. Foolish. I must have caught it in the dirt riding away from… the night’s panic returns to me. I crouch behind the downed KTM for cover, scanning the hill top for signs of movement.

Nothing.

No movement, just a gentle hum. Leaving my hiding spot, I slink up to my mangled camp and peek over the stone wall. The low hum I heard was the idling engine of the Jeep. Goof and the man were nowhere I could see. The trunk, though, was there. It's the lid off again.

I shut it off the Jeep, and threw the keys into the desert. I noticed the shotgun then, half buried. I walked over to it and I gave it a tentative kick. A black stone fell out the wound of the blasted open barrel. I picked it up and wiped the soot away. It was a hunk of gold.

I walked towards the trunk with a fear-tinged affection. Inside it was dustless and pristine. I placed the gold on the floor of it, tucking it into the shaggy fur and, again, fitted its lid back on. For the grinning goat? Another, longer kiss.

The KTM started right up—it was a miracle the battery still had juice after a night with the headlight on. I rode out of Twentynine Palms, and made my way up the highway 395 to Furnace Creek. I spent 3 days burning my terror to dust in the Death Valley sun, losting as much as I could of that night to repression and rationalization.

But I’ve never since looked to the heavens for my allies.

My allies are of the Earth.