I sat one day on the far west rim of Bozarth Mesa, overlooking Burro Creek flowing silently in the bottom of the canyon, hundreds of feet below. The sun was dropping low in the sky, powering down, offering the promise of relief for this country that seems to stand right at the door of the solar furnace. Bozarth Mesa is a broad rolling expanse of grasses, cacti, and junipers sprawled out across an ancient lava flow. 

I sat in the shade of an old alligator juniper.  The near-steady breeze mercifully blowing the gnats and no-see-ums to the opposite, lee side of the juniper.  Open range cattle have shaded up under this tree for a century, their long presence made evident by the deep rich midden of dried cow shit covering the shady ground.  Ground managed by our local BLM office.  Whenever the wind paused, the familiar cattle smell rose into the air, and the gnats would swarm in from the far side of the juniper.  With the next gust of wind, the gnats would return to the lee side, but the smell stuck in my nose tripping the memory gates, bringing to mind all the beautiful places that smell this way.  Cow shit and stunning views. It smells like public land.    

I was taking a short vacation from my job at the Breaking Wind Ranch, a poverty-stricken operation that’s been passed down through the family for generations.  A great source of family pride and guarantor of a marginal subsistence income, broken bones, broken marriages, and other western traditions.  My uncle owns the ranch and we don’t agree on much, like regular pasture rotation or regular paydays.

As the shadows grew, I sat in my folding chair and watched.  The scene always brought nostalgia and sometimes a tear.  And a longing.  It was a scene that I was watching on my phone. It was the climax scene from True Grit with Rooster Cogburn, reins in his teeth and outgunned, charging into the bad guys.  Gunfire, galloping horses, and the Rooster delivering justice.  It’s the John Wayne version.  I’m a western traditionalist and cannot relate to the 2010 remake with the Dude rather than the Duke playing in the starring role.  Rooster Cogburn does not abide.  That’s the whole point of the movie.

I’d downloaded True Grit so I could bring it here, watch it out on the quiet mesa, and reconnect with my western core values.  I’ve tried to model myself after John Wayne my whole life and never have been able to obtain anywhere near that level of nonchalant badness.  But it’s OK.  Just like none of us will ever be able to play basketball like Michael Jordan, he inspires.  Just like we’ll never be John Wayne, he inspires.  I’m resigned to the fact that I’ll always be a Marion Morrison.

I drank from a warm beer and lit my multicolored colored glass pipe.  My cousin brings me smoke from Nevada when he visits.  It helps me manage my rough-stock rodeo induced PTSD.  Bulls, broncs, clowns. They’re all triggers. 

Just about the time that Rooster was unleashing six-gun western justice on the Cheney gang, I heard the footfall of a horse just below the rim.  I looked up in time to see a lone cowboy on horseback riding up out of Burro Creek Canyon on a faint old trail a quarter mile from my camp.  When he reached the rim, the rider turned the horse toward me and slowly approached.

The cowboy wore a flat brimmed Montana style hat, and what at first I thought was a poncho, but as he came closer, I saw was a dark purple monk’s robe.   I stood, fiddling with my phone wanting to record this strange apparition for my Twitter feed.  If it’s not posted to social media, it didn’t happen.

In an instant the horse and rider were in my camp, and they halted a few feet from me.  The rider was an Asian man with a peaceful disposition, which I didn’t trust for a second.  He said to me,

“If you come to the West for one day, you have an idea of the West, but that idea isn’t really the West.  You might say, “I’ve been to the West,” but in fact you’ve only been to your idea of the West.  Your idea might be slightly better than that of someone who has never been there, but it’s still only an idea.  It’s not the true West.  Your concept of reality is not reality.  When you are caught in your perceptions and ideas you lose reality.” (modified from “The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching”, by Thich Nhat Hanh)

With that, the horse and rider slowly walked away across the gently rolling mesa grasslands and disappeared from sight heading in the general direction of Sedona. 

I looked down at my phone, and Mattie was struggling in a snake pit.  I looked up and just saw open country.

So, how do you see this place as it is, without the filter of ideas you bring to it?  Is it even possible to do when you’re looking at a western landscape?  Can you look at this place without the company of Rooster, the Duke, and the Dude?  Is it possible to write a western without a gun? 

Bozarth Mesa’s west rim is just grass and juniper.  Beautiful dry, rolling country broke open down the middle by Burro Creek Canyon.  It’s only sun, and wind, gnats, and cow shit.  It’s country that Marion Morrison might like.