Spirit of Place
Some esoteric thoughts and how a nature
poem evolves:
By Ed Keenan, author and cowboy poet

What is there about a certain place that we feel its influence pressing on our spirit? What are the elusive influences that make themselves’ felt along a faded trail rising from the desert floor to the piney woods? What particular spirit seems to color our mood or quicken our feeling of existence? Are they not the guardians of our very being, the sentinels of our longing?

Why do the rugged mountains seem deep in thought, solemn in the wind, overlooking dark arroyos and brooding canyons and bleak cliffs rising in the morning sun from a purple edge to a high blue sky—a barren blueness like huge wings of sapphire arced overhead.

The nature of wilderness is the continuous expression of its spirit. The spirit of place is the guardian of the past, not a ghost or apparition or wind spirit, but a sense or feeling—a connection and sensation—an awareness and recognition.

I had hiked since early morning up the canyon of Snow Creek. (No longer accessible) My destination was Mount San Jacinto, 10,000 feet above the desert floor. At mid-day I paused in the saddle of a mountain swale covered with chaparral and red manzanita. The narrow saddle offered a relief from the steep climb and the breeze was refreshing. I scanned the towering alpine walls of the escarpment ahead and had this momentary feeling of hesitation. The canyon route quickly becomes a steep narrow chute between shear walls and spires. One slip can pummel a body into submission.

Suddenly, I was distracted by the appearance of a golden eagle, screaming as if shot straight out of the mountain. Skidding across my eyes, it banked and soared on the updraft. Reaching the crest of the mountain, it surfed the sky back and forth and then plummeted out of sight over the horizon, leaving a contrail of silence and mystery, of spirit and presence. How many times had it been here on its circumpolar migrations? And then, glowing backlit in the sun, the yucca-like Nolina, scattered about in spectacular bloom, seemed to suddenly appear as gigantic candles of yellow flames. Indeed, the majesty and strength of eagles and mountains, all such wild sounds and movements give meaning to the spirit of place.

I left the faint animal trail of mountain sheep and deer and threaded my way higher up to a dripping spring toward the summit. It was the trickle of musical waters, between lichen covered rocks and lush green ferns and moss that beckoned me. Tuned by the surging breeze, the waters and sound of whispering pines above, invited me to sit on a flat rock overlooking mountains of eternity. As I was enjoying the natural opus, the spirit of place began pressing in—an awareness of connection. Could it be that I was the first to ever sit on this rock, the first on this exact spot? Is mine the only ear to ever capture such notes, or my eye to ever trace such a scene?

The nature of true wilderness is felt by its indigenous expression, a spirit of place. Wild as its animals, forests and rocks, there may be islands substantially unaltered by human intervention. I wondered, are there any original corners of earth that still persist despite human intrusion? Am I sitting on one?

And then, off to my right I discovered a small hut-like enclosure of stones made by an ancient aboriginal Indian. Evidently a blind, built for shooting mountain sheep or deer with a bow and arrow at close range; meat on the hoof that frequented the spring, or, that other hunters drove up toward the summit. I pondered the spot where I sat and felt a kindred spirit of presence and survival with those before me. I knew that I was not the first.

So, what is this spirit of genesis—the desire of being first? Is it not a desire to experience our roots? What is there about a certain place that we feel its influence pressing on our spirit? What are the elusive influences of nature that make themselves’ felt? Is it not the majesty and strength of eagles and mountains and the Holy Spirit itself—is it not all the wild sounds and movements that our ancestors experienced that give meaning to the spirit of place? Are they not the guardians of our very being, the sentinels of our longing?

 

Feelings of Discovery

I came to seek the beauty of the undefiled
The serenity of panorama and seclusion of woods
The quiet presence of the pristine
And magnificence of the unexplored wilds
And never-ending expanses
The awesome feeling of discovery
To sense the timelessness of distant views

So I wake to the sound of nothing human
And experience the remoteness of a virgin place
The unseen wilderness
That scouts and trailblazers never saw
Because I came alone
Surely I alone have experienced it
Setting eyes on vastness un-encountered

And so the dream of undiscovered wilds
A secret place where no one else has ever been
Only to find the traces of ourselves
Who hid their tracks to save their solace
From intruders such as I
That’s when I find a broken arrowhead
While believing that I was first on this spot

So I have never seen an unseen wilderness
Because an indigenous someone left his spirit
But I have experienced it
I have felt the passion of his pleasure
Because like him I came alone
Kindred footprints always follow others
Each having a natural feeling of being first

 Ed Keenan © 11-08