I bought the '88 Nissan Pathfinder just so I could go to places like this. Turn left at the windmill at the old cow tank, and put it into four wheel drive and go. Not a tough one-lane track in which a lot of rock hopping is needed, but tough enough that my old pickup would have high centered going across some of the washes. I've come out here before. It's just a few miles in.
The Tortillitas are an unassuming mountain range north of Tucson. Cradling Tucson to the north are the Catalina Mountains, raising up to eight thousand plus feet, impressing all the tourists who fly in. To the east of Tucson are the Rincons, high enough, with no roads, only foot trails. To the west are the Tucson Mountains, thick with saguaros and palo verde trees and tourists and their rental cars. The Tortillitas have neither tourists, nor spectacular views, but they do have many saguaros, cows, tortoises, lizards, woodpeckers, cactus wrens, javelinas, prickly pear, ocotillos, coyotes, frogs, ravens and red tail hawks. The Torts are thick with hunters a couple times a year, bow hunting for javelinas, but it's not hunting season now. On some nights, young lovers from nearly ranch towns come to make out and fuck in the hills. Judging from the decrease in the number of discarded beer cans and condoms over the past few years, I'm thinking that the teenagers have found an easier place to go to have sex and drink.
This night I drove out with the waxing Almost-Full-Moon just beginning to raise above the Catalinas to the east. 'Man, that windmill is hard to find' I thought. 'Where is it? Oh, there it is', seeing the silhouette of the blades. I turn onto the dirt track, engage the four wheel drive and slowly drive through the Palo Verde and Mesquite trees. It's summer frogs season and some toads are jumping away from my tires and headlights as I cross the washes. Some nights the gleaming eyes of javelinas glow in my lights. Not tonight. Just frogs jumping.
Owl's Head is a prominent rock peak in the Tortillitas. Nothing really special to most, but very special to me. Looking like a thick thumb pushing through the ridge, Owl's Head has yet to look like an owl's head to me. No matter. It's still a fine peak. I drive up and down the dirt track, in and out of washes, through the trees that hug the track. The saguaros are so close to the road you can see details of the saguaro shoes that woodpeckers live in, even in the dim moonlight. A bit more driving and I park my 4x4 in a spot that I've often come to. A sacred place I share with the animals and the trees and the bow hunters. Apologizes if I don't tell you exactly where it is. I plan to have a friend put some of my ashes there some day. You understand.
It's so quiet I can hear the blood pumping through my veins. That's the way it is here. Ten miles or so to the west, a freight train blows its whistles as it goes across a distant crossing. Two longs, a short and a long. The full moon is raising higher now, above that eastern ridge. Owls' Head is still in pretty much full shadow.
A small fire pit has been dug by me, for the cool winter nights. No campfire tonight. A hill to the north has prayer tokens and such among the rocks. To the southeast is a flat circle of ground where a ring of Christmas lights will one night be. But that's another story. Tonight is a night of spiral and flame.
I dig a spiral in the ground, using a stick. I'm going to try a little experiment, something I've never tried before. Into the troth of the ground spiral, I've poured Coleman White fuel. My idea was to light the fuel, let if burn down a bit and shoot it with flames gently lapping in the ground spiral. That's my idea. Now I know that white fuel is very volatile but I have my fire extinguisher close by just in case. I strike a wooden match from a safe distance and I lazily throw the match onto the ground spiral.
FAA-TOS-SHEE-YA-YAA. I swear to God the white gas explodes with a sound that has at least five syllables. Flames rise fast and hard to about 7 feet high and they don't look like there're going to burn down any time soon. Shit. Shit. Shit. I grabbed the extinguisher and just hold it in my hands. Ready. Ready. I'm thinking 'I can see the headlines now.' "LOCAL ARTIST ADMITS HE IS THE CAUSE OF THE OWL'S HEAD FIRE." The accompanying article would say something like "Stu Jenks, a local Tucson artist and photographer, turned himself into the Pima County Sheriff Department yesterday, admitted that he accidentally started the Owl's Head Fire. The Owl's Head Fire has to dated consumed 100,000 acres of virtually virgin desert land and is threatening nearby ranches. Many head of cattle are dead. The smoke can be seen as far away as Phoenix, etc., etc., etc.".
After what seems like five minutes, (but was probably only two), the flames died down to a gentle roar and then begin to flutter out. I did take a couple of exposures with my Rollei with the flames high, with the extinguisher close at hand. After a few more minutes, I touch the ground. Still hot. Damn. I use some water that I always have in my Pathfinder to cool things down, splashing it softly on the spiral. As an interesting byproduct, the water softens the ground spiral very nicely and I think 'Hmm, maybe one of my flame spirals will be nice here instead. A hell of a lot safer I can tell you that.' I quietly laugh at myself.
My old Rollei is still on its tripod, no worse for wear, from the fire and the smoke. My Zippo is in my pocket. 'I'll wait a bit longer for the Moon to rise and for things to cool down some more,' I think.
A few minutes later, I again open the shutter of the Rollei. I light-paint a spiral with my Zippo above the spiral in the ground, then I leave the frame, leave the spiral, and walk behind my camera. Fifteen minutes or so will pass before I close the shutter. Some nights I dance to music playing from my Pathfinder's CD player or I pray and meditate in silence or I read a book or walk around some or just sit. This night I went for a bit of a walk down the dirt track, listening to trains and the sound of my own blood, now pumping a bit louder due to The Coleman Fuel Experiment. I'm thankful I haven't set the desert on fire and hopeful that I have created a bit of a mystery on film. Hopeful that this shot works out and scared that it won't. (The shots that I know aren't right from the start I don't fret, like the first shots of tonight. I knew those negs were blown all to hell. It's the shots that I have high hopes for and a strong intuition that they are good, that hurt if they aren't).
Fifteen minutes later I close the shutter. I advance the film. I repeat as often as needed. Some nights it's just a few exposures, other nights it's a roll or two. That night it was just 3 or 4 more exposures. More trains in the distance.
After an hour or two, my heart rate is down to its regular 70 beats per minute and my camera is full of images. I pack up and drive back down the single track, trying my best to miss the frogs. And knowing I'm not going to fuck with Coleman Fuel anymore.
The next day, after a cursory look at the developed negatives, I could tell immediately that I have a couple of good exposures. I won't know for sure until I get the proof sheets done, but it looks good. I look through a loupe at the flame spirals on the negs. 'Yep. I think I got a winner here.' I think. I pump my fist slightly and say a quiet and succinct 'Yes!'. I also look at the Coleman Fuel Spiral negs, most almost completely black. Then I look at a Coleman Fuel shot after the fuel had burned down some. 'Hmm' I think, 'this one neg is pretty cool.'
[Note to the authorities: The Coleman Fuel Experiment was tried 5 years ago and hasn't been tried since. No need to worry. I'm just out in the desert and in the forests with my Zippo and my Hula Hoop with battery powered Christmas light attached. I have a feeling though, that doesn't make you feel much better. Again, don't worry. I'm being careful. Usually.]