Friday, February 10, 2017


I'd read about Berdoo Canyon and watched a couple of Youtoob vids. In one, a young couple carefully made their way, she spotting, in a spanking-new pickup towing a popup camping trailer. He allowed as how things were complicated by the length of the truck, implying, I surmised, they'd, at times, gone unhitched. (practicing my Proust.)

The other (vid) was dash-mounted. The pace was fairly speedy and as the boulders and rocks flashed by, one was left thinking it uninteresting, gray-brown uniformity. But I was unprepared.

The road to the canyon is littered, like one to a landfill, but instead of plastic bags there're millions of shotgun shells, brass of all sizes, torn ammo boxes and plastic bullet holders. Every 100 yards there's a pile of trash riddled with holes. The ground is COMPLETELY covered with broken glass; were it patterned you'd think "Mosaic!" (See: Williams, Pantheon, 2008)

It was a weekday, and here and there were folks, standing atop mounds -- like prairie dogs -- shooting. One had his binoculars up.

It began, each day, soon after first light. Increasing steadily as the hours wore on, it continued until well past dark. (Night scopes?)

Sunday, driving out, I was struck goggle-eyed as I passed group after group after group of five to twenty-five people separated by not more than a couple hundred yards...all BLAMMITing away.

The women scurried about, in the manner of traditional family values, shuttling beers to the men. (And yes, I admit to yet another instance of male prerogative -- factualizing based on surmisal.)

Were these the respected members of the National Rifle Association (Renowned gun advocacy organization) who'd left all the trash?

Pix purposely left out; like a two-headed calf, youse gotta see tuh believe.