Badlands may be the purest of landscapes.

I’m perched with my toes on the edge of an inland ocean that’s sculpted in waves but frozen in time. Walking thru a world of bare bones stripped clean by dust, heat, wind, and water. Seamless skies arch above me. Shells and fossils from ancient shorelines crunch underfoot.

Here comes the WIND, like a freight train howling down the track. Once again, I’m stupidly parked near a sandy wash and wake up at midnight with the camper shell full of dust. Wondering if the truck will blow over. Chasing a loaded cooler down the road. Trying to shoot with my 4x5 view camera without it getting sandblasted, hiding behind the driver’s door, and then giving up. Holding onto things in both hands while cooking, as a third thing blows away. Living in biting cold and driving rain in this…desert. But, as I tell myself yet again, these are the exact elements that made this beauty. So, dude, get over it.

And then, just like that, it’s calm. How strange these weathered shapes and pastel colors seem that now come forth! Rocks, sand, and salt all move in shifting pinks, golds, reds, whites, and pale blues that reflect the sky and are also glazed with dust and distance. Endless erosion gullies, shimmering basins, and tilting alluvial fans now seem weightless. Scale means nothing. Sunrises and sunsets are dramatic, yes, but they add their own color and contrast that may or may not be at the heart of things. These badland shapes and shadows are surprisingly fragile!

The longer I’m out here, the more elemental I feel, too. The sun comes up, and it goes down. Clouds build, then vanish. Wind scours the hills and desert pavement, then is quiet. Coyotes call. I’m chasing mirages like the art historian John C. Van Dyke and his fox terrier Cappy in The Desert. They wandered for three years, pulled towards the hazy daytime distance and towards Orion, the Scorpion, and my own favorite, Pleiades, sailing the brilliant night skies. No plan, no news. Forever changed.

So how can one match inside to outside? There’s simply sitting still and watching and listening as sounds float by. And there’s more formal meditation. And maybe tequila therapy.

Or even looking through a camera.

Objects and rituals take on new weight. My little Jetboil stove is a marvel while it boils water for tea. But my own hand fades as I pick up a fistful of sand and watch it trickle through my fingers. I’m my own hourglass, though not in any bad way. Just returning to silence—and to those same pastel colors.

Should I stay? Should I go back? Go back to what?

By Scott Atkinson

Turning to Dust

Simple Things

Into the Jungle