Pilgrimage

Early last June, I participated in an art class up on Mt. Charleston. Although I had a passing interest in the project, I almost certainly would have found an excuse not to bother driving the 70 miles from my couch to far end of asphalt. I like Mt. Charleston, but it is hard to bend the inertia of routine to get up there.

My motivation for the trip came in the form of a writing assignment for Seven. Having some extrinsic motivation to write and knowing I am going to make a chicken or two in the process helps with inertia bending.

The day's workshop was part of a series of projects designed to get people up on the mountain, interact with natural media and create an installation that would last however long it lasted. The resulting piece I wrote explains the whole concept.

That day, our class installed our sort of gradated stone and woodchip and deadfall Viking longboat sculpture, although we didn't think of it specifically that way at the time. We put it in the middle of the wash, again, not because we thought it might eventually turn out to look like a boat, but because we figured natural events in the wash, like monsoon flooding, would fairly quickly scour our project away.

It turns out it lasted longer than I thought it might and now heading up the hill is at least part pilgrimage. Last Monday, my wife and I had a morning off and went up just because we could. The colors are changing and because it was a weekday, we would have much of the place to ourselves. We drove up, parked near the old ski tow site, and crunched across the dirt lot to the wash and there it was, not much worse for the monsoon season.


The mast has collapsed, but the hull and prow remain and worse, I am beginning to build an emotional connection with a transitory piece. Perhaps I will disassemble it, carry it down the hill, and reassemble it in our living room.