Thursday, December 27, 2007

A Tryst with Nature

I longed for my own bed. My heart yearned for it with such ferocity and intense longing that it brought tears to my eyes. I shuffled impatiently within the confines of the sleeping bag to find a comfortable position to rest. As I rolled against that painfully hard ground, pebbles and twigs crunched complainingly. I had tried sleeping on my side with my ears pasted against the ground but the deep stirrings of the earth made me strangely uneasy. The nervous scurrying of a rodent, the smooth slithering of (Oh No!) a snake, the rustle of dead leaves all carried a nameless threat to my ears. Even the distant rumble of thunder somewhere across the vast expanse of the pastel New Mexico moonscape, traveled through rock and scrub to haunt me. It echoed the uncomfortable rumbling in the pit of my stomach which was protesting the half-cooked, soot blackened fish it had been fed earlier that evening. I was still sniffled from the sharp, suffocating smoke that the untamed camp fire had mockingly coughed up at us. My sharpened senses picked out the slow trickling of the Rio Grande somewhere deep in the canyon. It made me thirsty but I dared not stir. My fervent mind conjured up blood thirsty demons lurking in the darkness; waiting to pounce on me should I dare alight. The night was deathly still and overcast with the menacing threat of rain. The clumps of trees hanging precariously on the edges of the gorge had been swallowed whole by the pitch black sky. That and everything else, even time and distance, seemed to have melted into this ink-dark, resinous goop that was drowning us too. Our last bastion against the wilderness was this lonely tent that wobbled uneasily on its weak frames. Jokes about The Blair Witch Project had left us without any volunteers to sleep in the van. So we were all packed like sardines into one tent, huddled together, feigning a sense of refuge whichreally was non-existent.

I nudged Sid. He mumbled incoherently and slid gracefully into the depths of his sleeping bag, till only a few wisps of hair floated above the hood. For a second I hated him for getting us out on this trip. But he had argued convincingly about the charm of National Parks. I had dreamed of a romantic getaway, star lit skies and deck chairs perhaps. But here I was, marooned and petrified. She had enticed me first with her grandeur, the rolling hills, the rose and lilac of dusk,the burning orb of the setting sun, but mockingly. My discomfort was obvious. This terrain was unfamiliar to me. I was of nature but remote to it, made of it but not immersed enough to acknowledge how puny and helpless I was, how wanting of Her benevolence. So distracted was I by her beauty, that I had stepped out of the van and lingered too long. Now I was trapped, crushed and overpowered. The tryst with Nature had not turned out to be remotely pleasant.

I turned on my back. The fearsome monsters of my imagination pressed their ugly faces against the flaps of the tent. My throat was parched. I was sweating profusely, gripped by a mortal fear that was strangely laced with sadness. With tears running down my face, I clutched at whatever bits of memory my fear crazed, frenzied mind threw up. A carton of chilled orange juice, my bedside reading lamp, shoes, a coat, my favorite silk scarf, a glass of cold water from the kitchen sink, central heating, pizza in the oven, contact lenses and my bed, with fresh sheets smelling fragrant and inviting, straight out of the drier. Finally, I gave up. Like the Indians who rode across this wilderness long before my time, my mind sank to its knees, appealing to Mother Nature for help. Forgive me, I cried. Left on my own here, I wouldn’t survive a single day. Left to my own means, I would die. And finally, drip by drip, She granted me a damp, fitful sleep.