Dust Devils
First time I learned about the Valley was from an old skinny dipper named Chip soaking in a cliff-side hot pool somewhere in Idaho. He told me about springs with names like Wizard and Volcano, about bats that skimmed the water at dusk, about humans that ate mushrooms and orchestrated softball games on the desert floor.
I left in the dark, 700 miles and a raspy-voiced girl called Honey between me and the Valley. I picked her up in western Nevada and lost her somewhere before Bishop. She talked about our destination like a buzzing child, holding the pieces as a carrot above me.
And it was dark again, twenty-some hours later, as I limped my rig along the mountain pass road, dodging boulders, skirting pits. Ass cheeks clenched and bouncing off the seat at every rut. The wind kicked up coming off the mountain. Cloud cover and maybe-trails and scrub brush. Then I saw it. The Bat Pole. I laughed out loud, heavy and desperate launched from my throat, startled at the sound. Chip and Honey, their stories matched up: the Bat Pole, a 25 foot metal installation dripping with bat ornaments, marked the trail to the springs.
Can’t say how long I slept there, but I woke up to a sky so blue it sparkled, bright and painful angels in my eyes. That’s about where I forgot what time was.
A jack burro rubbed his head against the passenger side door, sounding like a…
