Nov 07 23
At the base of the Sheep Range (the mountains that border the northern end of Las Vegas) we are sitting atop a modest butte in the center of a wide arroyo, itself located within a gigantically wide wash. The butte is perfectly flat on top, with just enough room for us to sit with legs crossed, arms leaning back. It stands at about 20 feet. The banks of the arroyo are a little lower, maybe 15 feet — the earth has simply washed away in eroding rains, leaving the solitary, tall clay and pebble pillar. Though there is no one around for miles, to an onlooker we would likely appear as some sort of existential figure, oddly isolated in the middle of this primarily bone white canyon.
It is later in the day, so the seas of sage brush are casting long scooping shadows across the desert floor — in appearance the environment has completely changed from what it was only an hour ago. It’s sweeter now, less resolute. In a few more hours all will morph again — the mountain and sky will go from hazed, steely-striated brown, and gleaming swimming pool blue, to purply pyramids amidst massive darkening billows of deeply saturated pastels — of which, the slow tide of evening will smooth to an infinitude of black blue.
It is later in the day, so the seas of sage brush are casting long scooping shadows across the desert floor — in appearance the environment has completely changed from what it was only an hour ago. It’s sweeter now, less resolute. In a few more hours all will morph again — the mountain and sky will go from hazed, steely-striated brown, and gleaming swimming pool blue, to purply pyramids amidst massive darkening billows of deeply saturated pastels — of which, the slow tide of evening will smooth to an infinitude of black blue.