Kern River Valley, California

One sort of expects it with acid...the dissolution of comparatives...dissolving into oneness. I think I'm overdue for a dose.

I'd heard much about the beauty of the Kern River Valley. Also of bumper-to-bumper speed-demons hell-bent to get to the next event.

I was fortunate to discover a track up onto a beneficent hump of a hill where I made camp in the road. It was mid-April, traffic was light; no one came by; I snapped the photo below.

The light played across the landscape, acrost the mountain's shoulders and o'er the verdance of its neighbors lying gently beside it. I thought of The Salmon River in Idaho, and The Rhine. To be sure, this rivulet has its own prettiness, but it pales beside nobility. I was, after all, raised in a Mercedes.

At one point a pair of jets came low through the valley -- like teenagers with loud mufflers -- they made the left turn before running into the "hill" in the photo below.

There's a pall of domesticity. The twitter of a bird does naught but lend to the air of a wasteland; (one can imagine the trout on their ATVs, swilling Bud Light, getting fatter.) safe for those who prefer "no surprises."

I paid homage to how my (vast) experience can cast a sepia tone over the now. Recognizing the immediacy (be in the moment...havva nice day!) lends itself to satisfaction, but it's hard to ignore the feeling that the choreography is proscribed. It's a husk; no animism and little numinosity. A sucrulosic anemia that'd appeal to fans of Thomas Kincaide. (FREE GIFT WITH PURCHASE!!)

 I lasted two days.