• Canyonlands National Park

    15 Mar 2009


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 6     5    4   3  2 3  4   5    
 4   4   4   4   4   4   4   4

    The Needles, thin spires of eroded, alternating red and white sandstone

    Driving to The Needles, the southeast district of Canyonlands National Park, I’m listening to Fresh Air. Terry Gross is interviewing Mudresh Mahanthappa, a jazz saxophonist and composer who combines post-bop jazz with Carnatic music traditions. He’s describing the rhythmic structure of “IIT,”1 a piece he characterizes as “mathy.” Indian classical music (like much non-Western music) is not conceived in time signatures and measures but in beat cycles. For this piece, the cycle of beats is 6 5 4 3 2 3 4 5, a shrinking then expanding rhythm. The total number of beats—32—can also be divided into eight groups of four, or eight bars in 4/4 time. In “IIT,” these two rhythmic structures are co-present, one atop the other.

    I become trapped in the rhythm, unable to stop saying,2 clapping, hearing, and feeling it for the next two days.

    Black and white. Layers of sediment now condensed into rock flow in sinewy curves like patterns made with a toothpick in cappuccino foam.

    Red sandstone. Exposed layers droop and sag in some places, are geometric blocks in other.

    An era. The earth’s skin is a record of its past; sandstone landscapes make long patterns of time especially clear. As seas advanced and receded and sands blew in first from one direction then the other, alternating layers of sediment were deposited. Pressure and time compacted them into the soft rocks they’ve become, change through dazzling lengths of time encoded into the present like a music performance recorded to tape.

    A Needle towers ahead A mushroom-shaped rock A mushroom-shaped rock Black and white. Oddly-shaped eroded sandstone rocks.

    A look into a large canyon carved into layers of sedimentary rock.

    An epoch. Erosion records shorter though still unimaginable units of time. Despite being dry most of the year, creeks here flow with an incredible ferocity, carving canyons through layer upon layer of multi-colored rock. Various layers erode at different rates, creating odd shapes: mushrooms, hamburgers, castles. The most stunning examples here, The Needles, took shape as water washed particles from already existing cracks leaving multi-colored spires.

    The sun reflects off the surface of a pool of water formed in a sandstone pothole

    A crust of simple organisms forms over red, sandy soil A small island of plants has formed in a soil-filled pothole

    A millennium. In many sandstone layers, particles aren’t uniformly compact, so small areas will erode faster than others. As a small pocket forms, it tends to gather water, snow, and ice, increasing the rate of erosion and becoming a pothole. Over the years, small bits of sand and soil begin to accumulate. However, this small patch of nutrient-poor dirt isn’t enough to sustain larger, more complex organisms. Instead, biological soil crusts—communities of cyanobacteria, mosses, and lichen—develop. Once in place, they tend to prevent erosion, and greater amounts of soil accumulate until vascular plants can begin to outcompete. Soon, a small garden, an island of green surrounded by bare rock, takes shape.

    Macro photo of a desiccated lizard. The eyes are missing. The skin is an intricate pattern of greens and browns with interspersed bright blue.

    A lifetime. Dead, dried up, eyes rotted out, lying on the sandstone of the Slickrock Trail, it would be easy enough to pass by what was a lizard,3 saying, “Ew. A dead thing!” or registering nothing more than some little brown blob. But stop, crouch down, start looking. See: how the skin’s iridescence gently takes in the sun, separates its colors, and throws them back into the air; how the limbs’ plate-armor scales unfold in perfect ratio, like a sunflower’s florets or a rose’s petals; how subtly shifting hues of green and brown alternate with dots of turquoise, seeming out of place at a grave.

    A day. I scramble over slickrock, see these things, think these thoughts, recognize these patterns. I make my own patterns: footsteps, tissue, neural pathways. I wonder about the value of art, what qualities the art I find compelling share, what I should strive for in my own work. I think, “Imitation of nature is a dead end. No replication or rehashing of this place, of being alive and in this place, will ever be anything but a detractor, a cheap knock-off. But tapping into the connection between underlying pattern and infinitely varied result, creating a unique core separate from any other and allowing its expression: that’s closer to worthwhile.” I circle Chesler Park,4 feel intense heat in the sun and tingling cold in the shade, breathe dry air, see 100 miles in all directions, feel the present joy.

    3.

    4.

    5.

    Repeat.

    1. The Indian Institute of Technology ↩

    2. ONE two three four five six, ONE two three four five, ONE two three four, ONE two three, ONE two, ONE two three, ONE two three four, ONE two three four five ↩

    3. Or still is? If “lizard” is a concept of form, this dead form is about the same as a live one. If “alive” is part of the definition, then what’s this? ↩

    4. What can you say about this place that won’t sell it short? Chesler Park is listed among the most incredible backcountry experiences in the world. Three miles of a winding slickrock maze brings you to the park, a circular field of desert grasses surrounded on all sides by spires of red and white needles, an incredible walled garden. ↩

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