Post by miles on Aug 29, 2019 17:11:31 GMT
Terra asked to see some of my Summer Of 1969 adventure. I spent that summer with my dad, a professional musician, camping and crashing with his friends in the Reno Nevada area.
Pyramid Lake
The watermelon drove into the valley, between the towering, fissured rock formations. It stopped and made a short u-turn to get off the rudimentary dirt road. The watermelon was stripped, with bands of pale yellow green alternating with a deeper jade forest shade, in an oscillating zig zag pattern. The dust trail settled and eventually two people emerged from the van. We watched from our tent, pitched about a quarter mile away and higher in elevation. Even with 3 separate groups camping here now, the vast desert spaces surrounding this prehistoric lake made it easy to feel like no one else was there. The steep, outre tufa outcroppings pieced through the sand and water, dividing the terrane into canyons and alluvial plains. It was easy to consider the formations were the only true residents of this place. Like motes of sand, the tiny white shells covered everything in sight, remaining from the time the lake extended in all directions. In our mind we were pilgrims staying briefly and leaving no mark, perhaps to others we were invaders and desecrators.
This place was known as The Pinnacles, one of the shores of Pyramid Lake. It was a mere fragment of the gargantuan Pleistocene Lake Lahontan, that had covered much of Nevada and parts of the neighboring states. In this basin, the waters had no outlet to the ocean by river. In the 12,000 years since it was at its greatest expanse, the ice age ended, the desert conditions took hold and much more recently developers diverted the source of its water to other uses, leaving this concentrated remnant. As the lake receded, the submerged tufa outcroppings were exposed, triumphant. In the silence, amid the fossils and dust, there remained the powerful current of the past, and something more, something out of time. Pyramid Lake was part of an Indian reservation, and the tribe considered this place sacred.
To the south, benefiting from a paved road was the long western shore popular with fisherman and water skiers. Where wooly mammoths and wild camels had once found food and water, there were campers, barbecues and laughing children on the sandy shore. I had come here with my father and some of the other musicians from Reno in earlier summers, wading in the water, building sand castles and eating hot dogs.
The Pinnacles drew the seekers and the curious. The tribe, were less agreeable to having non-natives there. The reservation's policy was ambiguous and either discouraged or outright banned campers from the area. The policy seemed to be erratically enforced, so you took your chances for anything more than a day trip. You could understand their displeasure with the cretins who dumped their garbage there and defaced the mystic towers with spray paint.
My father and I had been here for a couple days, exploring, swimming and climbing. He was enjoying some free time before he began a new job. We were camping alone in a tent after weeks of depending on Glen’s friends for a place to stay. The hospitality his various friends extended was tenuous, you needed to move on before a certain time had expired and without transgressing some unspoken rule or dynamic ( usually specific to the household.) Now silence and distance from the personalities, dramas, temptations and frustrations that waited back in Reno. Silence broken by gales of wind, and fine dust that settled into your soul, and reduced you to infinitesimal sparks, drawn out and absorbed into the rocks, skies and water.
After several attempts we found a way up one of the largest formations, the fissures in the rock leaving handholds, rock shelves or passages to higher levels. Protruding from the sides and tops of the limestone were huge spherical rock forms, like cement bubbles 10 or 15 feet wide, sometimes in clusters like enormous grapes. Reaching the plateau of the tower was one of these domes broken open. It was hollow down to the lower portion, which was a level floor of shards from the outer crumbled shell. You could step into it, the fossilized egg of a roc or a dragon and look over the remaining side walls to the landscape and seascape below. It was a psychic observatory in the wasteland of alien rocks, and electric blue waters, you could perceive that everything resonated with powerful energies. We sat in the center and meditated. It felt like a time before any humans existed or after they ceased to be altogether.
In the afternoons we swam in the waters that were deep and cool, right at the shoreline of lake and sheer walls. The algae clung to the submerged rock, in orange dancing ribbons, one of those small explosions of color in the general monochrome, like when you first caught sight of the lake from the highway, a luminous blue band extending the length of the horizon.
Later that afternoon, we could see that the side doors of the watermelon were open and the occupants were clearing a place for a campfire. While those who came out here were looking for privacy, there was no reason to be unfriendly. Somebody who paints their camper van to look like a melonmobile, would probably be an interesting person to meet. Feeling it was as good a time as any we walked down to their camp, over the the dry crusty sand studded with rocks and countless tiny white shells. The side doors of the van were open and inside of the van was painted red, with black seed shapes to complete the illusion. We spoke briefly to the bearded owner, it was friendly but the pressing concern was if we would be allowed to stay here, or forced to move. It was reassuring to see others were willing to camp here, we could feel a collective unity despite being strangers.
*
Inside the tent, glowing bright green from the late sun’s direct sun’s illumination, my father sat in a lotus and I took sips from a wine bottle. The taut canvas walls flapped out and contracted in, during the frequent gusts of wind. As beautiful as the sunset was, the sanctuary of cloth deflected the sand clouds propelled by the gales, clouds that stung on your face and skin. Inside it was a light blissful feeling, the wine relaxed me and I ate some nuts and dried fruit. I wasn’t tripping, but picked up the contact vibrations from my father.
This was our third day here, after having no contact or warnings from the tribe, Glen felt it was safe enough to take the hit of acid he’d brought. It was time to return to Reno the next day, and get ready to move again. It was his last chance to trip at this special place. The watermelon was gone, they had left this morning. If there were any other campers, they had to be on the other side of the formations.
As sunset colors cooled to grays and purples, a car moved along the distant road, coming in our direction. It moved slowly, the headlights flashing and then disappearing as it navigated the turns, boulders and potholes. We were the only campers left and felt exposed. The truck continued in our direction and eventually stopped near Glen’s car. I stayed in the tent and he went out to see what was happening. As we feared, the men in the truck represented the reservation, and told my father we must immediately decamp. It was dark now and we took down the tent by flashlight and loaded his car with our belongings. It was somber and I could tell my father was upset. He waited one day too many to have an undisturbed trip, and now he had to drive back to Reno in the dark, on acid and figure out who we could crash with. His eye was bothering him, some sand had blown into it earlier, which added to his dark mood.
Pyramid Lake
The watermelon drove into the valley, between the towering, fissured rock formations. It stopped and made a short u-turn to get off the rudimentary dirt road. The watermelon was stripped, with bands of pale yellow green alternating with a deeper jade forest shade, in an oscillating zig zag pattern. The dust trail settled and eventually two people emerged from the van. We watched from our tent, pitched about a quarter mile away and higher in elevation. Even with 3 separate groups camping here now, the vast desert spaces surrounding this prehistoric lake made it easy to feel like no one else was there. The steep, outre tufa outcroppings pieced through the sand and water, dividing the terrane into canyons and alluvial plains. It was easy to consider the formations were the only true residents of this place. Like motes of sand, the tiny white shells covered everything in sight, remaining from the time the lake extended in all directions. In our mind we were pilgrims staying briefly and leaving no mark, perhaps to others we were invaders and desecrators.
This place was known as The Pinnacles, one of the shores of Pyramid Lake. It was a mere fragment of the gargantuan Pleistocene Lake Lahontan, that had covered much of Nevada and parts of the neighboring states. In this basin, the waters had no outlet to the ocean by river. In the 12,000 years since it was at its greatest expanse, the ice age ended, the desert conditions took hold and much more recently developers diverted the source of its water to other uses, leaving this concentrated remnant. As the lake receded, the submerged tufa outcroppings were exposed, triumphant. In the silence, amid the fossils and dust, there remained the powerful current of the past, and something more, something out of time. Pyramid Lake was part of an Indian reservation, and the tribe considered this place sacred.
To the south, benefiting from a paved road was the long western shore popular with fisherman and water skiers. Where wooly mammoths and wild camels had once found food and water, there were campers, barbecues and laughing children on the sandy shore. I had come here with my father and some of the other musicians from Reno in earlier summers, wading in the water, building sand castles and eating hot dogs.
The Pinnacles drew the seekers and the curious. The tribe, were less agreeable to having non-natives there. The reservation's policy was ambiguous and either discouraged or outright banned campers from the area. The policy seemed to be erratically enforced, so you took your chances for anything more than a day trip. You could understand their displeasure with the cretins who dumped their garbage there and defaced the mystic towers with spray paint.
My father and I had been here for a couple days, exploring, swimming and climbing. He was enjoying some free time before he began a new job. We were camping alone in a tent after weeks of depending on Glen’s friends for a place to stay. The hospitality his various friends extended was tenuous, you needed to move on before a certain time had expired and without transgressing some unspoken rule or dynamic ( usually specific to the household.) Now silence and distance from the personalities, dramas, temptations and frustrations that waited back in Reno. Silence broken by gales of wind, and fine dust that settled into your soul, and reduced you to infinitesimal sparks, drawn out and absorbed into the rocks, skies and water.
After several attempts we found a way up one of the largest formations, the fissures in the rock leaving handholds, rock shelves or passages to higher levels. Protruding from the sides and tops of the limestone were huge spherical rock forms, like cement bubbles 10 or 15 feet wide, sometimes in clusters like enormous grapes. Reaching the plateau of the tower was one of these domes broken open. It was hollow down to the lower portion, which was a level floor of shards from the outer crumbled shell. You could step into it, the fossilized egg of a roc or a dragon and look over the remaining side walls to the landscape and seascape below. It was a psychic observatory in the wasteland of alien rocks, and electric blue waters, you could perceive that everything resonated with powerful energies. We sat in the center and meditated. It felt like a time before any humans existed or after they ceased to be altogether.
In the afternoons we swam in the waters that were deep and cool, right at the shoreline of lake and sheer walls. The algae clung to the submerged rock, in orange dancing ribbons, one of those small explosions of color in the general monochrome, like when you first caught sight of the lake from the highway, a luminous blue band extending the length of the horizon.
Later that afternoon, we could see that the side doors of the watermelon were open and the occupants were clearing a place for a campfire. While those who came out here were looking for privacy, there was no reason to be unfriendly. Somebody who paints their camper van to look like a melonmobile, would probably be an interesting person to meet. Feeling it was as good a time as any we walked down to their camp, over the the dry crusty sand studded with rocks and countless tiny white shells. The side doors of the van were open and inside of the van was painted red, with black seed shapes to complete the illusion. We spoke briefly to the bearded owner, it was friendly but the pressing concern was if we would be allowed to stay here, or forced to move. It was reassuring to see others were willing to camp here, we could feel a collective unity despite being strangers.
*
Inside the tent, glowing bright green from the late sun’s direct sun’s illumination, my father sat in a lotus and I took sips from a wine bottle. The taut canvas walls flapped out and contracted in, during the frequent gusts of wind. As beautiful as the sunset was, the sanctuary of cloth deflected the sand clouds propelled by the gales, clouds that stung on your face and skin. Inside it was a light blissful feeling, the wine relaxed me and I ate some nuts and dried fruit. I wasn’t tripping, but picked up the contact vibrations from my father.
This was our third day here, after having no contact or warnings from the tribe, Glen felt it was safe enough to take the hit of acid he’d brought. It was time to return to Reno the next day, and get ready to move again. It was his last chance to trip at this special place. The watermelon was gone, they had left this morning. If there were any other campers, they had to be on the other side of the formations.
As sunset colors cooled to grays and purples, a car moved along the distant road, coming in our direction. It moved slowly, the headlights flashing and then disappearing as it navigated the turns, boulders and potholes. We were the only campers left and felt exposed. The truck continued in our direction and eventually stopped near Glen’s car. I stayed in the tent and he went out to see what was happening. As we feared, the men in the truck represented the reservation, and told my father we must immediately decamp. It was dark now and we took down the tent by flashlight and loaded his car with our belongings. It was somber and I could tell my father was upset. He waited one day too many to have an undisturbed trip, and now he had to drive back to Reno in the dark, on acid and figure out who we could crash with. His eye was bothering him, some sand had blown into it earlier, which added to his dark mood.