I would like to trace a course from what I call the "pastoral west", which exists in the imagined past of the present (maybe even more so the imagined past of the recent past?) and is largely devoid of historical reality, to what exists today, which, by definition, must consist of reality. And so, I am making two crossings - from past to present, and from what is imagined to what really exists. To me, it is most interesting to me to cross both distances simultaneously, since our sentiments of memory belong to the past, and neither the imagined present nor the real past carries as much aesthetic novelty.
I don't think I could find a better frame of reference to an especially important marker along the way than the subset of Don Stinson's paintings of the west that are intruded upon by the ruins of civilization:
http://www.donstinson.com/oilpaintings.html
See, for instance, "The Spud", "Lone Star and Pool", or "Imagined Ruin at Rifle Gap", along with plenty of others on that page.
In my eyes, the juxtaposition in these paintings carries the sort of sentiment that I mention. I'm not sure exactly how that happens, except that maybe my mind attaches a pastoral illusion to what is NOT shown in the paintings, which is how and when those objects arrived where we now see them, and what is their history?
Indeed, maybe it is all just a trick of placing them within picturesque, pastoral landscapes, which suggests to us an equally pastoral history. In simpler terms, the prettiness of the picture makes us imagine a nice past for these interesting, out-of-place artifacts.
Before going further, I should clarify that when I mention the "pastoral west", I am referring to the illusion of the frontier as a place that embodies naive ideals of freedom and hope. For most people, the frontier was far from wonderful and delivered to them a tenuousness of comfort as well as a tenuousness of survival itself. And yet, this imagined reality has sustained a romance in the social consciousness. This imagined reality is not as homogenous as I make it sound. There is the "Wild West", which owes itself more to the extroverted hero archetype than the pastoral interpretation that I (perhaps naively, as a matter of psychological mirroring?) presume to widely represent a parallel, introverted urge marked by feelings of internal and external lucidity and transcendence.
Having driven through portions of the southwest on a good number of occasions now, I am forced to acknowledge the marked difference between what I imagine such an experience to be like, and what this experience has often been. But before I describe this gap, I want to clarify that I choose driving over hiking or flying because I have spent the most time driving, and because to me it represents the most robust realization available of the simple concept of freedom in the open country of the west.
I always imagine driving through the west to be an experience of fulfillment, as if transcendence is captured through location. For the amount of thought I have put into some topics in my life, I often uncover such remarkably absurd assumptions lurking in innocuous places. My actual experience of driving in the west has been mixed, and perhaps all the more intriguing for both its variety and its nuance.
The most common feeling is the banality of vanilla boredom, as the miles stretch on and on. This is largely independent of the landscape. It is a simple reality of being human and living on this planet that the timing and tempo of the landscapes that we pass through generally will not jibe with our feelings from moment to moment. Thus, from the "base case" of boredom, you can imagine two dimensions of variance: attachment to / detachment from your surroundings, and the quality of those surroundings. As easy as it seems it would be, to be engaged with beautiful surroundings, it is just as easy to be engaged with anonymous desolation, or to be detached from those same beautiful surroundings. All these possible combinations describe, simply, the experience of a day or a week spent anywhere unfamiliar, but certainly the west, which is paradoxically of a single character, and yet endlessly varying.
I have felt intense detachment for miles upon miles, from Moab to Montrose, up through Wolf Creek Pass, or entering Grand Canyon National Park, scenery be damned. I have likewise felt elation driving through the endless, flat New Mexico prairie, across hailstones fallen out of sight yet still littering the roadway, or on a predawn drive east towards Blue Mesa Reservoir.
So what of the reality of today? The west that I imagined does not exist. The frontier, as was noted generations ago, is forever gone. Did it ever exist how I imagined it? Not likely. I think I have finally understood that I cannot find it in a place. In as much time, however, I have discovered that with time and the peace that is still waiting out there, you can cultivate a feeling. Ultimately, like so many things in life, it is not as simple as it first appears. Regardless, I will again go looking for it, and will continue to find peace in unexpected places.
