A long time ago, in a . . . well nothing so exotic as that. But it was decades ago – when I was just starting college. My brother came by the house early one Saturday. He was driving an old Chevy Nova. “Want to go look for mines?” It was not an unusual question. The idea in his head I knew well. We would grab a couple of flashlights and head for the canyons where miners had delved for gold and silver in the deeps of time –ok, a hundred odd years back. It made me think of Brigham Young’s forthright commentsabout *not* hunting for gold in those mountains. But Gentiles at least were not bound by booming voices in old tabernacles.
I grab a light and hop into the car. The glass pack mufflers rumble as we head out east. We hit a winding canyon road, and begin to climb. I wonder about our noise in this place and think about old miners with pack mules, looking for the *right place* to dig in the deep solitude of steep canyon walls and the massive mournful sound of wind in ten thousand pines – I’ve been up here when hearing that somehow near and distant voice made me feel profoundly lonely. The echo of those experiences resonants in me. It’s not pleasant. (I’m not a camper by choice and I prefer Motel 6 to a tent and sleeping bag.) These sorts of thoughts make me somber.