Days in this hot country out on the long road make it hard to think and drive. The endless passing desert becomes a uniformly abstract shade of sepia and blur. At some point, looking off into the distance, the blazing horizon becomes an oil painting, distorting the light...I am my own Photoshop.
It seems I've been passing that same mountain for the last hour, where else in the world will you find mountains without shade? The minerals in that mountain are making my compass dance, explorers call it the 'Dance of Death'. Death has been stalking me for the last hour... I am my own mortality.
I pass an old wooden shack standing lonely on the side of a hill, an old time log cabin, remnant of the first settlers. The wood has been scorched and the tin roof, rusted through. 'Who lived there', I wonder. Was he old and frail when he died? Do his bones lie under the sand..or did he simply move to a better shade... Either way, the desert claims it, scorching everything it touches into a sepia colored sand, bleaching bone. I am my own designer.
Coming to the last stretch, the sun sets on days of travel and the oil painting fades. Night time in the desert is the most humbling experience, if I listen hard enough I can hear, I am not alone. Looking up at the southern constellations I can see the way home and how far I've come. The mountains still cast no shadows and death has moved on.. I better rug up now, night time becomes colder than ice...I am my own adventure.
- David G. P. Martin, Australia Jan.010
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