September 25, 2022

This was nothing new to me. The memories are seared in. Back in the beginning, those kids on the school bus taunted us, confounded by the structure carved from the side of the mountain from which we emerged. They watched, eyes glued to the many windows as each of us grabbed an arm load of firewood and bolted effortlessly across that swinging bridge like it was steady ground. In complete puzzlement, they reached for insults concerning our alternative lifestyle and could only summon up "cave people," or more specifically, "cave girl." There were worse things i thought. It was curve ball weird, and evident by their inability to grasp the hurtful words. It came out humorous, rather than painful in hindsight.

And so, it had all come to light again. My tent had morphed over the last few days as 35 mph gusts sandblasted the structure as well as my body. I secured a tarp on the western side and when the wind changed directions, I secured another. I'd created a little pod by day three. Every moment I spent outside I had to be masked, except when I made the climb up to the mesa where the earth was firmly packed. Below in the distance I could see the snowy white, sandy dust rise in a translucent spray making its trek across the desert floor. I spent a couple of hours a day walking up there where the dirt was anchored by the roots of grass and sagebrush.

These last few trying days, i would heat my water and wait for a lull and plead with the wind to have mercy for the few minutes of my bathing. Otherwise, i would be carrying a desert tarbaby into my blankets for the night. I had just gotten comfortable, was zipped up inside, and talking on the phone when i heard an engine idling a few feet away. The sand doesn't carry sound, so i didn't hear the approach. The tenor of a man's voice beckoned, "Why are you CAMPING here?" My own response caught me off-guard. "Because I can", I said rather gruffly through the flimsy fabric. I'd surprised myself. These harsh words had come so easily. "Well, not really" he said "You're on private property." Oh lordy, my heart began pounding"

Not a week ago, a couple of guys drove by as i was bathing. Though hidden, they slowed and became curious. A half an hour later, inside my tent, they reappeared engine running, exhaust spewing a few feet away from me, and lingered 15 minutes or so. It terrified me. I muttered profanities over and over and never got out to greet them. Best to stay unseen, I had decided. They eventually left, but I was on guard now and fear brings words to the surface that might normally be tucked under. I told this man to hold on, and that i was talking to my husband as i gathered myself together. I masked up, and crawled out as the wind was still blowing, and spoke.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I was under the impression that this was BLM land. He craned his neck sideways registering that i had done my homework. He stared at this clean, masked older woman firm in her resolution and raised his arms heavenward, pointing aimlessly flustered by his need for understanding. It was becoming clear to me the property lines were suddenly vague to him. He was a man with no outstanding characteristics in appearance. I would have had a helluva time if i were asked to describe him.

Then he said, "This is just weird."

I could see the gears in his brain tumbling, imagining why on earth anyone would take being sandblasted for several solid days and nights in the middle of the desert with little to no reprieve. He glanced down, first taking note of my bone collection. It was if i too were seeing this scene through a new set of eyes. My interesting collection appeared suddenly macabre. The coyote skull, forefront and prominent. My gargoyle. Voodoo witchcraft, perhaps? Pitted, volcanic rocks were stacked in graduated heights, black and white intermingled. A coiled length of rusty barbed wire.Then on to the many gallon jugs, sliced open, filled with sand, bordering the tents perimeter and anchoring the tarps.

"I just don't understand, this is just weird. You got a brand new truck, doesn't even have tags yet and you're what? Out here, in this tent? Drove by last week and thought, well they'll be gone soon, but you're STILL here", he exclaimed

Shaking his head, brow furrowed, he was clearly baffled. "And you say you were talking to your husband? Is he in there?", gesturing toward the tent.

"No, no ,no.", He was on the phone."

I tried to explain that I was healing, left Virginia in the spring, had been in Wyoming, it got cold, bought the truck, and was now waiting on the camper shell"

"And" he asked "What kind of sickness is this you say, again? This is just weird." That was how many times now I'd heard the word "weird" come from this nondescript mans mouth? I had long stopped contemplating the oddness of all of this and was simply pressing on one day after another hoping for signs of recovery. I considered how troubled he was. It was as if he had understood everything in the universe up until now.

"It's okay ", i said, consoling him, "my friends all think it's weird too, but I'm healing so I'm going to keep on doing this for as long as I can. "

"I guess you'll clean all this up, whenever you leave, huh?"

"Oh yes, and whatever was here before me. I've picked up a good bit of garbage already." This desert wasteland, I was thinking. I bet I'd picked up garbage from two counties over and it had probably all blown in, in the last few days.

I remembered to ask his name. It was the end of our conversation instead of the beginning, but I felt the need to know. "Matt", he replied. "My names Kari. Pleasure to meet you sir," i returned. He squinted his eyes, and with a perfunctory nod, he slowly backed away, then turned his back to me and climbed into his pick up truck and drove away. I would like to have crawled around in his head for a while to get a clearer picture of what he was thinking, but whatever it was, i supposed he was relieved I wasn't a convict running from the law, or whatever picture he'd painted. The truth is, i forget how odd this is. It's become my life. Sometimes it's way more brutal than I'd like it to be, though I could now see, that's the weird for him he couldn't quite grasp. He looked like a man with a straight office job, who had played by the rules his entire life and was on his way home to his like minded, even keeled wife and a passel of well behaved children...and I'm guessing lots of them. This is Utah after all and I've been to my share of Walmarts. This was actually sounding rather appealing right about now. I'd imagined this made for some entertaining dinner conversation. "Oh... to be a mouse in his pocket" as my parents used to say, whenever you wished to know the moving parts of someone else's life after they'd taken leave. Regardless, he left and did not bother contesting the property lines. He just wanted to know what I was up to, like those kids on the bus.

The vehicles I have called mine in my life in order. Gift/Old green rusted out 1970 something ford pick up. Gift/My mother's housemates old red LeCar. ? A powder blue 1980 something ford Econoline van. An inherited Chrysler Lebaron. My husbands white ford econoline van Another inherited Silver Buick. Gift/A bright red immaculate 10 year old Toyota Rav 4 given to me by Mary, Bob's sister(my favorite car ever until the AAA guy fried it. Even said oops! I watched the sparks fly. He denied it ever happened.

And then...I got sick and could not sit in any used cars because they are just like homes. They make us even more sick. Spills, wet bathing suits, towels, spilled coolers.

This is why I am so very thankful to be driving this reliable, new Ford Ranger truck with good quality air.

Thanks to all of you for every donation and every word of hope. I could not do this without you.

https://gofund.me/b58050f1