What is the vista of our days – that which appears when we look as far as our eyes can see, that which lay upon the horizon, or is the horizon? Does it call us forth to journey beyond, to walk to distant lands? Does it hold us in, like a cocoon, nurturing or trapping us? Is it one that we notice or look out upon – is there a beyond to see? Is it one that seems stable, unchanging as we go about our day, or is it one that seems to change with every twist and turn we make? And what is the relation between what we physically see with our eyes, and that which we envision inside? Just how does the vista of our lives, help frame our perceptions, and our lives? In turn, how do our experiences, thoughts and emotions effect what we see out upon the horizon?
Last week when i went to place a stone and found his home in front of a bench, with a sweeping view of the treed valley of the arboretum and the mountains beyond, all of these questions came back to me – questions i have asked many times, in many locales, with a variety of vistas that have effected me in different ways.
While this came to me, i know it had been silently gnawing at me for some time. Gnawing at me as i walk around the city of Reno, feeling caged at times. Comfortable, yes yearning for more, but not able to see the beyond. Reno sits in a bowl, on the edge of the Great Basin, that expanse of desert land where the few waters do not flow into the sea. A land contained, sitting between two vast mountain ranges – the sierra nevadas just west of here, and the rockies, a long journey away. In between are mountains and valleys, a land where little flourishes and grows, a land of rock and desert scrub that lay beneath an open sky, with little life on the surface to mediate the relation between the two. It is a harsher land, unforgiving at times.
in it i can feel the remnants of a life and history gone by, a time that once was, when seas and plants and large animals, even those that we call dinosaurs flourished here, a very different place it must of been, before it all collapsed, becoming desert and harsh, an environment that supports such little life – and i can only envision what happened – then i shudder and feel a sense of not quite horror, but something that comes close to it. I feel it in the stones, those that are this land, and i feel it as a larger presence when i pass through – as i have a few times. It is a place where people pass through, the booms and busts of the mining towns, those places where the the secrets have been stolen from the earth, where that which lay beneath the surface has been ripped out, exposed, and crushed, without respect to what it may say or reveal. that goes on still, the mining of the earth, and that is what some of the few towns that dot the land are about. but most seems empty, devoid of people, dotted with ghost towns or abandoned mobile homes and it is place i feel that us humans are not meant to live. for me, much of it seems to be haunted, a past gone, yet also a vision, a warning, of what might become.
And that is what i see when i look out in three directions – to the north, south, and especially east – to the brown mountains that form three sides of the bowl. They do not beckon or call me forth, but seem like barriers to a place i have no desire to go – though a place i must pass through if i wish to journey to the other side. A place both of my imagination and one that is real. A place i have spent little time, but have little desire to explore – although i know from my brief trip up a few of the hills, that there is more than meets the eye, there is wisdom in the land, a wisdom of old, a wisdom of ancient times, and also the follies of our day and the not too distant past. a future – of that i am less sure – and as for the present, the now – it seems harsh to me. And thus the vista becomes a barrier, or represents one to me.
In the other direction, to the west, stand the foothills to the Sierra Nevada, a majestic mountain range. The land seems more alive, with a smattering of green, and here my imagination can call me forth – at other times of the year. Winter comes early to those parts, and lasts a very long time, the lands covered in a deep snow, the mountain passes that one must cross to reach the promised land – the rest of california that lay beyond. One would be tempted to say California as the promised land, but the state line is not far from here, and as i know, Truckee is part of that state, a town where cars had a few inches of fresh snow on thier roofs when i passed through last June; a place which in the summer, has night time temperatures that are usually the coldest in the nation. But that i would not know had i not been there before, the vista itself does not tell me that.
At this time of year, i also recollect the infamous Donner Pass, that place where the donner party who were crossing the land all those years, but still not long ago, and got stuck and trapped in the winter snows where the few who survived did so by eating their companions who had died. This is something i know, not from the vista itself, or from experience (though i have camped a few times at the state park that is there today and named after them) – but from what i had read and been told – the stories of the land that have been passed down, stories that form part of our collective consciousness, and part of mine.
Those mountains that i see to the west, have beckoned many a time, for myself at other times of year, and for many right now – and not merely as a place to pass through heading the call of “go west young (wo)man, but as a place in itself.
Lake Tahoe is not far, though i would not know that from what i see from town. That magical lake of deep blue, a holy place gone amuck, with cottages grander than many homes elsewhere dotting much of its shore, towns, some state parks preserving the land, and the national forest that lay above – mainly on the california side. For me it is a place for the summer – of camping and hiking, for i do not ski.
Though it is gearing up as i write, the world class ski hills that surround the lake, that call so many forth at this time of year – a time anticipated with excitement, a time and a place that become magical and alive, a place and activities they are passionate about. And how different these foothills to the west must appear to them right now – for in them, the skiers see something completely different than I.
The vista changes throughout the year – at present the foothills have a light dusting of snow on top, something that has more recently appeared. Again. for i was here two months ago, coming out of the mountains from the north – from susanville, lassen national park, the lakes, down from mount shasta way to the north, and when i arrived the mountains called back to me, how i yearned for them, and wished desperately to go back, to go back to where i had been – and beyond. I went to tahoe and returned, and then an early october snow storm came in and covered all in white, a blanket which i felt closed the mountains to me – for a while at least.
Though i had planned journeys in my mind, to the south, the eastern route to yosemite, which i had not yet taken, and still have not, the time for that having passed by now, at least if i wish to bus and came. Another journey, to the eastern shores of tahoe, the nevada side, another place i have yet to go, and have thought of many a time. But it seems out of reach, The commuter bus to Carson City, the gateway on this side, only runs in the morning and at night, the last morning bus at 6:45am, and i have yet to go. And i ask what does it mean to have a vista shut off, to not be able to get to it? Or where the journey is most difficult? And i have asked this in other locales, where mountains appear, but i have no way to get there, the beyond seeming inaccessible – out of reach. It is then that one feels most trapped – a yearning, a call, one cannot fulfill, or so one believes, and then does one believe that is true for all?
But then i passed through, back to the other side, to the coast, a land of very different vistas that have spoken to me, in so many different ways, at so many times. So much to write about the vistas that have framed my journey, both those that are physical and those that exist inside. I know they are connected, not separate at all, one calling forth the other, until a shift is made, a shift which is often reflected in the other – be it inside or out. And these vistas i meant to write about, but for now it is time to broaden my vista, step out beyond the four walls of the room that surround, that are my vista as i write and type.
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