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PYGMY ADVENTURES |
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THE PYGMY WORLD, A UNIQUE LEARNING EXPERIENCEIt had been a
less than pleasant three miles since the pavement ended and the road continued
as a rough dirt path that had not seen maintenance for some time. The chill of
the early morning air, being slowly warmed by the rising sun indicated that
summer was silently slipping away and the desert would be going into hibernation
soon. As indicated on the map, a
large iron gate appeared as a break in a long row of Athol trees. Before venturing into the driveway, which was lined with
trees and oleanders slowly loosing their foliage, I hesitated, and again asked
myself what I was doing here. Was
accompanying a group of this nature really what I wanted to do for the next
three days? It
all started approximately a month before when a friend, a member of “Preserve
the Desert”, an organization bent on banning the use of motor vehicles in the
East Mojave, sent me a newsletter published by some “so-called” outlaw group
planning a camping trip into that very area.
As a reporter for the High Desert Star, he proposed the idea of my going
along with a group such as this and writing an article on what would be their
obvious negative impact on the desert.
That evening I took the newsletter home and read it over dinner and a
couple of drinks; “interesting”, was my reaction.
I had never been in the East Mojave Desert of California.
In the past, and especially working for a rural paper, I had attempted to
remain neutral on these issues. I
do admit to leaning in favor of the position held by “Preserve the Desert”.
Why should vehicles be allowed to trample and destroy plants and animals
that had just as much right to life as humans?
As I read about the upcoming trip and the definition on who was invited,
along with some of the other erratic stories, this seemed the ideal time and
occasion to test the validity of my friend’s beliefs.
Also, if what my mind envisioned from the newsletter became reality, it
would be one hell of a story. The
next day I contacted the person whose name appeared in the paper.
After some small talk, I inquired if I could accompany this group on
their planned trip scheduled for later in the month, as a reporter for the Star.
Totally expecting a negative response, I was surprised when the answer
was a quick “yes, be glad to have you along”.
I obtained the necessary information and requirements and there I was
piloting my old International into the designated meeting place on that cold
fall morning. As
I drove down the drive, the gravel crunched under the Scout’s tires.
Rounding a small building the area opened up; seven vehicles of all
denominations were lined up in front of a large garage.
A ragged-looking group was busy loading items into the various vehicles,
and no special attention was afforded my arrival.
Parking away from the others, I walked over and asked for the individual
with whom I had been in contact previously, and was pointed in the direction of
the building. I had worn old clothes and from the looks of everyone else, I
was over-dressed. After a short
discussion with my contact, I was introduced to the remainder of the group.
Everyone seemed friendly enough, but it was far too early to make any
positive judgments. The negative ones’ already existed in my mind. My
contact, who for this article I will call Herb, brought out a number of American
Flags and gave one to each vehicle with instructions, “attach them to your
vehicle antenna”. My first
thought was, this is typical of rogue groups to wave the flag and profess their
freedom at the expense of all others. Then
I remembered that it was less than three weeks since the Trade Towers
destruction. Could this be a show
of unification against that disaster? The
abbreviated discussion centered around being American and backing America, but I
could not clear my thoughts of outlaw gun and motorcycle groups waving the flag
for their individual causes. I did
feel a sense of pride mixed with some guilt, as I had failed to put a flag on my
vehicle before. Now there it was, waving in the light breeze. I was proud to be an American. After
a lot of CB radio checking, the small caravan of eight vehicles started to move
out. One vehicle motioned for me to
fall in line into the fourth position, and my first thought was “why here”?
Was this the place they put the person destined for Deliverance?
The music to Dueling Banjo’s danced through my mind.
Was I being negative or just being cautious? One thing for sure, the answer would become obvious within
the next three days. During
the previous four weeks I had preconditioned myself to every dubious aspect that
I could expect from an outing of this type with a four wheel drive club. My intention was to remain somewhat separated in case trouble
followed too close, but this plan was quickly destroyed.
Someone came by and slapped a High Desert Pygmy magnetic emblem on each
side of my vehicle. Now I was in the very middle of the 4x4 train.
No longer could I distinguish myself as not being a direct participant of
the excursion. It
had already been decided, by whom I didn’t know.
That we would head out Highway 40 eastbound for Fenner and breakfast. This was my first, but far from my last misunderstanding of
the little newsletter I had read. From
the articles I had read, I assumed that we were on our way to Goff.
When I brought this up at a later time it took awhile for the laughter to
die down. The highway was
busy early this Friday morning, and I hoped that the Scout would be able to keep
up. The general flow of traffic was
running well in excess of the speed limit.
Instead of jumping in and “going for it”, the train of vehicles lined
up in the right lane around 60 and held that speed.
I kept expecting some driving exhibitions to indicate the macho ability
of some of the vehicles, but this did not materialize.
About 10 miles out of Fenner, the radio cracked, and a voice stated,
“think I saw a sign that stated they need gas”.
There on the side of the road was a family standing around a stranded
vehicle with a boat in tow. The
train of vehicles moved to the shoulder with the trail vehicle going back to
check. Later at Fenner, the story was told: one of the young children in the family said his dad had made
a little sign with the word “GAS”, and no one was stopping, so he had just
prayed that someone would stop and help them.
When our eight vehicles stopped, he stated, “Wow, now I understands the
real power of prayer, when he asked for just one vehicle to stop and got
eight”. “What the hell is going
on”, I wondered, as courtesy was also extended to cars and trucks alike all
the way to Fenner. I was now sure
this was being done for my benefit but was just as sure it would not last when
alcohol entered the picture. The
courtesy extended on the highway flowed over into the restaurant, and the club
members were quiet and polite to everyone, especially the scantly dressed women
who served breakfast. The owner of
the restaurant even took pictures of the group before we left and invited all
back on the next excursion. I felt
like it was the calm before the storm, and the way things were going I would be
right in the middle of it. I was
continuing to have doubts about being here. I
had tried to determine all morning who was directing the operation but it had
been impossible to tell. Each
member had an idea and voiced it. Then they talked, and talked, and talked until
the last one left talking won by default. The
CB radios that had been relatively quiet on the highway became increasingly more
active with in depth discussions on the beautiful day, the wonders of the
desert, and the unique cloud formations that filled the powder blue sky.
The first segment of the excursion would be over Foshay Pass to the Depot
at Kelso. No sooner had we started
up the long grade into the mountains did I hear “popping my first beer of the
day” over the radio. This followed with many transmissions stating the same
message as if it was heroic to imbibe at this early hour.
We stopped at the crest of the pass for a break (translated beer).
Discussions centered on the various aspects of the surrounding mountains
and wildlife that had been observed on previous excursions, and how the National
Park Service had slaughtered many of the burros that was claimed to be
detrimental to the Preserve. Somehow
the dichotomy of this action seemed irrational for a protector of the
environment, but very possibly the Pygmies had their facts confused.
I did notice that not everyone was having beer, but enough were to
confirm my prior thoughts related to alcohol consumption. With
the break over, we continued westward dropping down from the mountains adjacent
to the Kelso Dunes. The desert
country we had traveled through was rugged and exotic.
Not being one who had traveled the desert, I had no knowledge of the
magnificent vistas that existed and the beauty of the terrain was captivating
beyond anything I had ever experienced. It
was early afternoon when we rolled into Kelso and parked next to the old Union
Pacific Depot. Two or three other
vehicles were in the dirt parking lot, and one could see fear on the adults’
faces as they quickly gathered their children close and pointed in our
direction. This apparent distrust
was soon dispelled as the Pygmies reached out with hands of friendship to
everyone and offered candy and smiles to the youngsters.
Both were readily accepted. We
gathered at the front of the station near the railroad tracks, remembering
yesterdays, when travelers came here years ago and would sit under the tall
shade trees on the green grass and cool off even on the hottest of days. Then in a caustic way the conversation centered on the
National Park Service and the Bureau of Land Management, and how they had taken
out all the trees, let the grass die, put up a chain link fence along the
railroad track, and promised great visions of the future. From my limited perspective it was for sure the future was
not now. I mentally chalked this up
to an area that I would investigate in the next few weeks. Why would these rednecks care?
They did not want to take care of anything anyway; they were just a
radical 4x4 club. My ecological
friend had stated groups of this type were destroyers, not builders; was there
something I did not understand? Obviously,
there had to be much that was either distorted or conveniently dismissed.
I
watched the beers being popped and then we were underway, under the railroad
bridge and up through a beautiful canyon, stopping as it narrowed under pine
trees that were becoming more prevalent as the altitude increased.
A late lunch, a few more beers, and we were on the trail again.
Much was made of the old days when none of the trails were closed and the
lack of freedom of travel was never considered.
The radios crackled more and more with general discussions on the
beautiful canyon and the green carpet of plants brought about by the additional
rainfall this season. Finally, we
reached Wild Horse Canyon Road, and within 30 minutes we were unloading vehicles
at the camping site. Not sure what
to do, I watched as some pitched tents, others stretched out sleeping bags in
the rear of their vehicles, and some set up cots in the open under the clear
blue sky. There was no real
discussion on what each individual was to do but it seemed that every individual
became involved in helping to establish the other parts of the camp. The existing fire pit was straightened up, wood appeared from
one of the vehicles, tables were set up, and snacks were available.
It was as if everyone was doing his thing and it all just came together.
Laughter and discussion on the day’s activities filled the air, with my
own presence drawing limited to no attention. After
a great dinner of Steaks and all the trimmings, the group gathered around the
campfire, which was being continuously fed from wood brought in the various
vehicles. This group might have
been a bunch of anti-environmentalists, but one thing for sure, they are were
organized. I had attempted to stay
apart from the discussions and maintain a separate demeanor, but after a few
beers of my own, they did not seem like that extreme of a group. In the cool mountain air, the warmth of the campfire along
with the beer seemed to “sooth the soul”.
Then one of the group yelled in a loud voice, “its music time”, and
proceeded to unpack a large Boom Box. I
was prepared for this, as all redneck groups play radical music; either
political, racist or sexual. The
shock that reverberated through my being can never be explained when the first
song was “God Bless America”, and everyone around the campfire was singing
along. “America the Beautiful”
was next, and songs of similar content were continued for the next two hours.
The laughter and jokes, all that could be retold in mixed company,
punctuated the remainder of the evening. Something
was wrong; after all that I expected it was as if I was in a time warp.
Almost on cue everyone decided that the day was over and it was time to
hit the hay. The fire was banked,
the lights extinguished, and within 30 minutes the camp was quiet and serene.
The stars were like diamonds on velvet and I was sure with effort, they
could be plucked from the sky. Then
the moon rose and the terrain took on a surreal texture as sleep took over, and
the real world no longer existed. It
was past three AM when I awoke feeling the call of nature from the night before. The moon was high in the sky and the landscape was covered
with defused blue light. Something
caught my attention, a white object was moving through the bushes and trees away
from the camp like a mystical puff of smoke.
I watched as it moved up a small incline and then stopped, lingering for
some time at the same location. What
to do, there was nothing I could do as I sat focused on the unknown object,
knowing that the light could be playing tricks with my eyes. Then this ghost-like illusion started moving back toward the
camp—should I yell and alert the camp? I
just starred as the object, that seemed to have no form, floated back through
the trees, entering one of the tents. I
did not know how to describe what I had seen, but was sure the morning would
provide the opportunity to discover what, or who, the mysterious object was;
that is, if is was an animate being at all. Needless to say, I would sleep no more that night and was
awake when the steel gray dawn was first streaked with yellow and gold, followed
by the sun rising over the mountain range.
The western slopes appeared to be on fire as the sun inched its way down
into the valley bringing warmth in its wake.
Long before this, the first sounds of morning could be heard.
Looking out of the back of my vehicle where I had slept, into the cold
damp morning, I could see the beginnings of breakfast and smell coffee perking
over a flaming fire. A new day was
dawning, and so far nothing had gone as I had expected. This was a bunch I did
not understand that behaved as if they were a part of nature, not foreign to it. And as much as I did not want to believe it, this group was
nothing like I had expected or had been led to believe. After
breakfast, individuals pitched in and helped clean up the camp, picking up every
scrap of debris from the night before except for the pile of aluminum cans by
the fire ring. The gear was put
away as we would be returning to the same campsite that evening, and the plans
were in place for the day’s activities. Of
all the unexpected and amazing things that had occurred, that day would start my
true conversion process, I just didn’t know it yet.
The individual whom I called Herb stated, “as we will be driving on
public lands it is imperative that all seat belts be engaged for safety and that
we drive slowly showing reverence for the environment.
Further, has each vehicle determined who the designated driver is for the
day as no vehicle can be driven on public lands by anyone consuming alcohol”.
As if on cue, one member of each vehicle stepped forward and placed a
yellow ribbon around his arm denoting their status as designated driver for the
day. Next, I was called to the
front of the club and informed that this day was reserved for visiting the Land
of the Great Pygmy Spirit. I was
advised that if I traveled with the group that day, as prescribed by the Pygmy
Tablets, anything that I heard or saw must never be revealed outside of the
Pygmy world. As difficult as it is
for a reporter, my inquisitive nature caused me to acknowledge the request and
commit to the requirement. Anyway,
what could they do to me in the future if I did violate this rule? Herb then took my index finger and drew a small knife blade,
which he had carefully cleaned with alcohol, across the flesh causing a bead of
bright red to surface. That
ceremony indicated the commitment was sealed as he rubbed my blood on one corner
of the Pygmy Flag. Then
another member of the group stepped forward and began an in depth explanation of
the symbol and meaning of the Pygmy flag. “The
spear carried in the right hand That
day I experienced a world that I will never forget and it has had a profound
effect on my life. Moving out of
the camp we traveled up washes, through canyons, and over treacherous mountain
passes, absorbing nature in it’s most glorious and least understood way. In the Valley of The Pygmy Spirit I observed a desert dust
devil glide toward the summit of the highest peak and linger at the entrance to
a mysterious cavern. The sun mixed
with the dust particles turning them to gold, and scattering light in all
directions. The Valley shook and
took on a mystical aura. From the
dark cavern high above the Valley floor floated a small figure with hands raised
toward the sky, wearing a loin cloth and holding a spear.
Obviously, the flag that I had observed that morning was a true
representation of the being that now stood above me.
That day, as time seemed to stand still, I listened to the enigmatic and
enlightened messages on life and the rational meanings of existence.
During our visit the sun reached it’s zenith and was settling low on
the horizon when the Mystagogue disappeared in a cloud of golden dust.
Before departing, the Pygmy Spirit summoned Herb to the cave and provided
tenants for the future existence of the Pygmies.
As I turned to return to my vehicle a shadow crossed my path and with a
quick glance at the western horizon I observed a large bird disappear behind the
mountain peak. Interesting I
thought, but it was just another incident in a day of total amazement. The
pop tops resounded again as the line of vehicles started the long journey over
the dangerous trails back to camp, and similar sounds would continue into the
evening twilight. During the
return, on more than one occasion, I observed a large dark shadow overhead that
seemed to follow and track along with the vehicles.
The day was one of the most dramatic, yet also one of the most serene and
relaxing I have ever experienced, and the vistas were beyond description.
I had been accepted into the group as an outsider, and now, after
experiencing the Great Pygmy, I felt a sense of fulfillment and pride to be
considered a member of a group with these high ideals.
If the principles expounded that day encompassed society, what a
wonderful world we would live in. The evening was a repeat of the night before except that the songs were western; but the same sing along atmosphere and high degree of togetherness continued. Through inquiries, I determined that the ghost I had seen the night before was one of the group with a white blanket over his shoulders on his way to accept nature’s call. The moon had contributed to the elusion. Half way up a tree adjacent to the fire ring where we were I observed the dark shadow of a large bird perched among the limbs. I could not lower my eyes and as unrealistic at it seems, I am sure the bird and I made eye contact, which caused shivers to run up my spine. In the atmosphere of the moment I somehow knew that the bird perched high above me was the same shadow I had experienced on the return trip from the Valley of the Pygmy. In this same vane, there was no way I could communicate these subjective feelings to others assembled at the campfire. Later that evening as I slipped off to sleep the last thing I heard was the long, low, hooting of an Owl. My mind wanted to think but there was no time, for in the comfort of the universe, darkness consumed my being, and I dreamed of the creative concepts portrayed in the Valley of the Great Pygmy The
next morning, the final day of the trip everyone was in excellent spirits and
enjoyed retelling the various stories of the last two days.
In breaking camp, everyone worked with the attitude of leaving it cleaner
than when we arrived. The cans
filled two large trash bags with the aluminum being destined for donation to the
local school district of one of the members.
With a final inspection we departed and started the long trip back to
civilization, where we would arrive in the late afternoon.
Although I never observed it, I had the distinct feeling that the shadow
of a bird was closely following all the way.
Later I would find that this was correct.
Because of the long-term devotion and adhering to the high ideals of the
Pygmy World, the Great Pygmy Spirit had provided the club with the protection of
the Pygmy Owl. In the future,
whenever a member experiences difficulty, the Pygmy Owl will be there to console
and assist in the most appropriate manner.
With a lot of goodbyes and hugs, yes hugs, the members of the High Desert
Pygmies 4x4 Club went their separate ways until the next time.
I was pleased when Herb asked if I would be interested in going on future
outings now that I was committed through blood to the group.
Without hesitation I answered ”yes”, knowing that my view of 4x4
clubs and the desert would be forever changed.
As I drove out of the driveway a dark shadow circled high on the
remaining heat currents of the cooling fall afternoon. What
I discovered was that just because one has a 4x4 vehicle does not mean that one
cannot respect all aspects of the desert as much as those who walk or ride the
trails on non-motorized vehicles. Just
because you portray yourself as a soapbox environmentalist does not give you
apriority in preservation and conservation.
That those who attempt to lock up the federal lands for the future,
whether by a political or private group, deprive responsible use today, and the
key they use for exclusion is an unacceptable alternative, except to the few
environmental elite. The absolute
power to exclude takes many forms for many reasons, with the majority of them
being unnecessary curtailments of freedom, for the benefit of the few at the
expense of the many. Could it be
that the gun and motorcycle groups have gotten it right after all?
It will be interesting to see how my “Preserve The Desert” friends
respond to this article as it is in complete variance to what we both originally
expected. If invited, I will go
again. This small unassuming group
has completely changed my thoughts on who should be allowed in the desert---it
should be completely open to all who love, respect and sincerely appreciate
it’s virtues. And now I am a
Pygmy, in both ideals and reality………………………………thanks to
those who showed me what true appreciation of the desert entails.
Blowsand
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