Vegas freaked me out.
After a weekend of Holotropic Breathwork in Prescott, I decided to go through Vegas on my way to Utah. Not a good idea.
Let me explain. Breathwork, in a nutshell, consists of breathing too hard, listening to music too loud and laying on your back for two plus hours as your body and soul go into a non-ordinary state of consciousness. While in that altered state, a breather can feel more hopeless than he has ever felt before, can experience collective unconscious/ past life experiences, become a wolf or a tree, sit in the lap of God, feel the complete sadness of the world, or feel childhood anger at his father. I tend to feel supremely stuck for a while, scream and yell and crawl like a snake on its belly, rest for a bit, see myself crossing a field in Gettysburg for the tenth time, dying on the field of battle for the tenth time, cry for all the hurt in the world, and near the end of the two hours, rise into the Clouds of God and fly. And that's a good Breathwork experience.
So on Sunday, the day after the breathwork, I drive to Vegas for the first time in my life. Sounds like a good idea at the time. Bright lights. Excitement. I forgot that since I had no psychic boundaries to speak of, due to the Breathwork, I tend to feel what others are feeling. I'm empathic by nature. On Sunday, I'm empathic to a fault.
Let just say I got to Vegas in the early afternoon, and even though I had intentions of staying the night, I fled The Strip around midnight. Lost $20 playing craps in as long as it takes you to read this paragraph. Won back $8 in nickels at a slot machine in which I have no idea how I won. Left the faux replica of New York City, walked up the strip to Caesar's, go lost in the sports book there and couldn't find my way out. Finally did find my way out, walked back down the strip and cried, watching the fountains at The Bellagio, performing to a tape of Pavarotti. Walked down the strip some more, entered a medieval castle, looking for a room, changed my mind at the last minute, and left in my yellow Nissan pickup as fast as I could, the lights of Vegas literally in my rearview mirror. I stopped at a casino south of the Utah border, thought of sleeping in my truck in the parking lot, couldn't, went inside to win my $12 back, lost $20 more at the Blackjack table, got back on Interstate 15, crossed into Utah, found a place to park off an exit ramp, and cried myself to sleep.
The next morning I awoke at dawn, got back on I-15 and headed toward Cedar Breaks National Park. Actually it was this morning. Monday morning. Cedar Breaks still had feet of snow in places and it's June. Wonderfully cool in the alpine meadows at 10,000 feet. Played in the snow with Ponderosa pine needles, making spirals. Healed my soul from Vegas.
Now, I'm west of Salt Lake City on I-80, looking for a dirt road to my right that'll take me to the shores of The Great Salt Lake. I passed an apparently abandoned 1930's resort a while back and I've crossed the edges of the lake a couple of times on the Interstate but I'm looking for a place to shot along a shoreline that is hardly disturbed. I pass a Morton Salt plant and see an exit up ahead. I'll take it.
The road turns to dirt quickly. I'll following my nose. Speaking of nose, it stinks here. Smells like a Mud Toad that's been out in the sun all day. I can't see water but according to the map, if I keep heading North, I've got to hit water. Some bizarre bushes in the hard sandy soil beside the road. The road isn't bad but it's isn't good either. Two tracks firm but rough. And God, that smell. The smell of salted everything.
The road forks after a few miles and I take the left fork. Soon, I see shoreline up ahead. I find a place to pull off and park. Getting out of the truck, I notice the smell has dissipated but still there. Maybe my nose is getting used to it. I grab my Pentax and walk toward the water. Black flies buzz by. Big black flies.
I approach the shoreline, but it's not really shore. A wet mix of sand, brine and crystallized salt. It reminds me of walking on the end of a frozen lake, but it's not ice I'm walking on but salt. The wind blows the flies away from my head. It's getting hot. All in one day from walking in the remnants of last winter's snow at 10,000 feet to 4,000 feet here, walking on dried salt beside a brine sea. A small peninsula of sand juts into the lake. Off to the West, a desert mountain range. I then see the shot. One spiral, two spiral, three. The third spiral is the charm. Black flies come and go. Not biting yet. I take a dozen shots. The wind picks up. I'm used to the smell now. I pack up the camera as soon as I'm done shooting and take it back to the truck. I'm now feeling the salt on my skin, on my lips, on my teeth. I stand still for a while. Only for a while.
I love the desert, but this is down right biblical.
I go back to the truck, start it up and head back to the Interstate.
Opening a cool Tab from my cooler, I drink a long draft, cutting through the salt on my lips.