Written on 10/4/2023
I am exhausted by my day job. Sometimes it helps to read works that name what I’m feeling. I recently ran into Karl Marx’s theory on how workers within a capitalist system can feel a sense of alienation. There are many facets of this theory, but the one that spoke to me was the part about how one can be wrenched away from the life they truly want to lead, because they are forced to work meaningless jobs in order to make money to survive. These feelings of alienation have been dragging me down for years, since I had to quit bird field work and get a steady job with benefits. It should come as no surprise when I say that working in customer service isn’t fulfilling for me. It just pays the bills, and gives me a little extra left over to go out birding on the weekends. This week, I needed more of a break than birding locally, and reading thoughts that validated my sentiment, so I took the opportunity to head to the end-of-year party at the Rio Mesa Research Station, which is located in the thick of the red rock desert near Moab, Utah. I’d attend the first of two nights, spending Friday out there, and coming back early Saturday.
Rio Mesa is 132 miles from my house. The first 123 miles are paved, and then you turn off onto desert gravel. The drive takes around three hours, with the last nine miles taking almost a third of that. My heavy truck jerked violently as I was driving over the thick cobble and deep ruts. I bounced along the road, in somewhat of a hurry. The light was starting to fade, and I wanted to get there before dark, since I’d only be staying a single night. I hadn’t been out there in two years. My dog, Everett, sat up for the entirety of the dirt road, annoyed that his sleep was disturbed. I reached back and pet him, letting him know that he was in for a good time. God I missed the Dolores River, and the red rocks around Moab.
I was invited to the party by my friend Hau. He manages the research station, and lives there spring through fall, leading groups of students around, and overseeing the day-to-day operations. In the winter, he heads back to his house in Moab. He always has a big party before his return, and never fails to invite me. I missed last year’s event, and this year, I was only able to make it Friday night, since I’d have to be back at 6:00 AM on Sunday for work. The big hurrah would happen on Saturday night, and during all the revelry, I’d be back in Price, sound asleep in my bed.
I stopped a few times on the drive, to take pictures, and to stretch my legs. The Piñon/Juniper Forest is more stunted here than it is near my home in Price, but it is equally impressive. Cryptobiotic crust formed in the pinkish-orange soil, and created tiny buttes, canyons, and valleys, that all came together to look like a diorama of the larger landscape. I dreamed of being here in the summer months, listening to the sweet song of Gray Vireos, which I haven’t heard since I did bird surveys in the area.
I arrived around 5:45 PM, and went directly to Hau’s house. He gave me a big hug immediately after I walked in the front door, and asked if I wanted to take the dogs for an evening walk. I welcomed his suggestion as I’d been sitting for the better part of three hours.
We ambled past the bird banding station, which was closed down for the night. The mist nets were rolled up like newspapers, and a heavy tarp covered the entrance to the shack where the banders took all their measurements. The next day would be the last day of banding, and then the nets, and all the other equipment would be stored away for the winter.
We arrived at the Dolores River, and the dogs took a drink. Everett looked up and growled at a menacing rock that was protruding from the middle of the slow moving water. A long-tailed sparrow flew away from the commotion. Hau asked me if I knew what it was, and I told him it gave off the impression of a Song Sparrow. The bird called as it landed farther off, and confirmed my suspicion. The sun was beginning to set on the sandstone walls across from us, and I was happy to be back in a place that I love.
On our return to the house, Hau pointed out a cottonwood that had caught the last of the sunlight, and held it in its golden leaves. “Beautiful,” he said. I agreed, and was impressed that a man still finds beauty in a landscape that he has worked for over a decade. He called my attention to a patch of dried out grass, which had been matted by deer bedding down overnight. It was a wide area that looked like a haphazardly combed head of hair, and we guessed how many deer must have spent the night there. I have always been impressed by the detail that Hau is able to pick up. Perhaps he finds it easier to see in a land of few distractions.
When we got back, Hau checked on the meal he had been slow-cooking for hours. It was ready. We ate pot roast over jasmine rice, a combination I’d never tried, but it worked quite well. The two dogs played at our feet, until they both tired out and lay down. We spent a lot of time talking about birds, plants, and other wonders that make up our world. It felt good to be in the company of someone that loves the desert of southeastern Utah as much as I do.
The evening wound down, and I said goodbye. I was spending the night on the other end of the property, at the group site, where I first camped as a student in 2014. There was a couple that was going to use the same area, but they planned on staying in one of the cabins, and I’d drive off farther to be more by myself. I had a spot near the river, where I camped two years ago, and I loved that the water whispered me to sleep.
I pulled up to my site, let my tailgate down and used it as a bench. I drank a non-alcoholic pale ale while Everett sniffed his new surroundings. The moon hadn’t yet risen, and the stars were much brighter than they are in my small-town backyard. There were no owls calling, which I had hoped for. The campsite was saturated by the acidic fragrance of the willows that lined the river.
After admiring the nighttime splendor for a while, I put Everett into the bed of the truck and crawled in beside him. He fell asleep almost instantly, tired from all the playing and exploring. I stayed up and read a book by headlamp. When I got too cold, I burrowed down into my 20 degree bag, pulled a supplemental quilt up to my neck, and fell asleep.
I woke up at 6:30 since I had plans to join Hau at his house for breakfast at 8:00. Condensation was thick on the windows of my truck topper, and in spots heavy droplets had given in to gravity, which formed rivulets and created a streaked appearance that was hard to see out of. I used the pinky-side-edge of my hand as a squeegee, wiping the condensed breath away, so I could watch the sun rise in the desert. I didn’t want to get out of my bag until light had crested the sandstone buttes to the east, and the earth had warmed up a few degrees. I put the edge of the quilt over Everett, and I just stared out the window for an hour.
When I finally got out of the truck, I saw a Golden Eagle fly over, and a large group of Chukar started sounding chicken-like clucks from the rocky hillside across the river, perhaps warning the covey of a present predator. A Song Sparrow gave a burry chirp from the willows. The bird banders would be beginning their last day of work for the season, and I thought that this was the time of morning when I’d start a breeding bird survey if this were a summer day, long ago. I birded for a moment more, until my hands got too cold from holding binoculars. I wasn’t being paid to be uncomfortable, so I packed up my things, and went to the bathroom to warm up my hands under hot water.
I drove over to Hau’s house for breakfast, arriving at 8:15. None of the other guests had shown up yet. Even though I was late, I was the first one there. He put me to work, chopping a sweet potato, some squash, zucchini and an onion. After I diced the vegetables for a morning scramble, I went outside to let Everett out of the truck. Hau’s pup Dolores ran over, and the two dogs frolicked in the fine pink sand that surrounded the house. A Bewick’s Wren called from a nearby brushy area.
After breakfast, I told Hau I’d have to start heading back to Price. I wanted to make my writer’s group meeting that afternoon, and had to work the next morning at 6:00 AM. I’d miss the final hurrah that happens every year on the last night that the research station is open, but I was glad to have made it out for the first half of the two-day party. We both agreed that we’d try to see each other again soon.
When I drove away, I started to think about the life that I used to lead. I’d spend a good portion of the year working outside, studying birds, and taking in the beauty of the world. Every time I see others working these types of jobs, I get floored with nostalgia, and I want to come back to what I believe is fulfilling work.
It feels good to come to Rio Mesa. I enjoy hiking around and chatting with Hau, one of the greatest naturalists I know. Some years, I sit in on the bird banding, and get to see everything up close, in feather-by-feather detail. I enjoyed being there this year, as always, but the gnawing feeling of alienation came with me.
When I come here, I feel like a man that is split in two. There is the me, that works a bullshit corporate job. I try to do well, making money for capitalists, so I can get a meager performance-based raise every year. I have a mortgage to pay, a dog to keep alive, health insurance that I must have as I age, and other various financial and social obligations that make it impossible to do what truly brings me joy. Then there is the me that wants to say “fuck it all,” go birding every day, spend my evenings writing, and walk around the desert noticing the beauty of a cottonwood as its golden leaves catch the magnificence of the setting sun.
For now, I’ll have to continue with these conflicting versions of myself. As long as I’m getting outside as much as I can, I’ll try to be content with the fact that my life is pretty good, although not perfect. For a single night, I felt that I was able to be true to myself. After that, I had to come back to the drudgery that keeps the lights on.
Great post and agreed on the struggle between a corporate job and the need to go birding or just being in Nature. It's all I think about Monday - Friday: how much Nature can I get in before the next week starts. If I have only one regret, it's that I didn't start birding and generally appreciating Nature decades earlier.
Lovely. As you know I have struggled with various health issues that comes with my age and genetics, but, the best thing about my age, is that I'm pretty close to retirement. I'm 62 and hope to retire at 65. I, too, am so tired of corporate America. I look forward to the freedom when I retire. I am so glad that you have birding and the love for the desert to tide you over as you do the necessary keeping a roof over your head and all the other annoying adulting stuff.