JOHNNY INTERNET'S ISLAND ODYSSEY

Something has to be done, he thought to himself.

Every time he found something useful to write about or quote, screaming teenage fools or cranky no-life geeks assaulted him on one point or another. Johnny had no opinions on matters he little cared about, but he did wonder why anyone would bother to take the time to insult him from afar. All over the Internet, people were exchanging digital invective over arcana that made no difference to anyone but themselves. After pondering the source of this compulsion, he decided on a genetic explanation.

Perhaps it was due to a kind of inbreeding, he reasoned, like that which might occur over several generations among a population of cannibalistic weasels abandoned on a rocky island somewhere, poor creatures who could neither sustain nor reproduce themselves except among their own circle. He savored the metaphor slowly, closing his eyes to visualize the scene, when all of a sudden:

"Ouch! Hey, what the- ?!"

A sharp gnawing sensation coming from his right ankle shattered his reverie: Johnny shook the varmit loose, pinned its neck under his boot, and stood there till the the bulging black eyes dulled and the squirming stopped. He kicked the limp, warm corpse aside and gazed around. Here and there in the deepening twilight, furry forms scurried back and forth, hunting for an opening to exploit. If he just didn't SAY anything, he could make it back unmolested to where he'd stashed the longboat. . .

Meanwhile, in a parallel universe, Johnny and his wife sped north toward the state line on a smooth, empty two-lane. They were headed for what he called "his land," an ostensibly useless rocky parcel he neither owned nor was in a position to buy on the rim of a high mesa some 40 miles away. The cab of his '87 Ford F-150 was warm and comfy as they barreled along at 15 to 20 mph over the speed limit. No cops in this part of the world (for better or worse), he reminded himself, and if there were, they'd have better things to worry about. Besides, he had to gun the pickup over 70 just to smooth out the ride. The Firestones (yes, Firestones) he'd gotten a year ago in Maryland were wretched excuses for tires, though not the ones involved in the recall. More than one had misshapen bulging sidewalls that his old Eastern Shore (the "Mexico of Maryland") tire dealer had assured him were "within spec," and at the time he'd had no time to argue. They'd carried the big Ford on more than one cross-country trip and up & down the boulder-strewn road to the rented adobe countless times without a whimper, so perhaps his wily hometown merchant had been correct. But the thrumming! At least he lived where he could drive fast enough not to care.

This was truly an exhilarating place, he thought, but awesomely strange and singular. A landlocked island, to be sure. Over a year without television had strengthened this impression, and the place they were headed for now would carve it in stone!

Along the way they passed through a sleepy village known to all but the Colorado tourists speeding south as a good place to get killed in the heroin trade. To Johnny, the thirteen consecutive unsolved murders made for a tense, invisible counterpoint to the "Fresh Sopaipillas" banner adorning his once-favorite local restaurant. Farther along they saw flags fluttering from a Buddhist shrine on the edge of the wilderness. The mountains beyond were pristine, devoid of condos and even roads except for rocky tracks, and snow glistened on the peaks. The giant valley, large enough to swallow whole most counties of his homeland peninsula, stretched far out of sight to the north and extended west to yet another range of snow-capped mountains that were nameless to him. Within sight of where they were driving, half a dozen fourteen thousand foot peaks punctuated the emptiness, breaking his mind. What planet is this, he asked himself -- were there highways on Jupiter?

Visiting "his land" required a brief check-in at the headquarters of the subdivided ranch surrounding the mesa. "Do any of the parcels have power or phones?" he asked, knowing the answer. There was no water, either. Once you'd built your house or cabin, installed your photovoltaic system, and figured out there was no one to call anyway, you would have to depend on collecting rainwater for your cistern or have the water trucked in. Interesting, to say the least. But the views. . .

They started up the long dirt road to the top. After two and a half miles of switchbacks, each with a mind-boggling vista that threatened to draw him off the road, they reached the top and found the place. Oh, it was "his" land, all right, and could never be hers, but Johnny's wife understood his need. They made their way over a natural bridge of jumbled rocks over a deep crevice, all the way out to the rim, and paused: he had never seen a view that stretched so far and yet contained not a single town! The only way to get a better view of the immense spaces to the west would be from an airplane, but this was scary country to fly over. The sky was just too big. And there was more to feel:

It wasn't just the vistas, the quiet, and the emptiness. It wasn't the almost total absence of civilization. There was something impossibly old about this place, something holy, even alien, about the lichen-covered rocks strewn all about, the ground beneath his feet, the juxtaposition of earth and sky. There was something there beyond "creepy," something deep and powerful. If he owned this spot, he would build a hut and visit once or twice a year, he decided (more would be dangerous). This was a place to touch and leave, a place so strong that "owning" was absurd. Someday, perhaps, but only as a way to have the right to camp out on the rim and watch the sky at night, if he could stand the excitement and fear. The thought felt as right as anything ever had. Johnny noted the strange mix of anticipation and patience it evoked, and the two of them drove back home in silence.

Sunday afternoon alone, and yet another universe:

Johnny went outside with a cup of coffee, dragged a plastic chair to a sunny, sheltered spot, and thought about his friends back East. Far across the sea of desert and mountains they were, past the plains, over the Appalachians, hunkered down amidst the trees and fields beside the megalopolis. He'd been gone well over a year but still couldn't look at a map of the sandy peninsula he and his wife called home for 25 years without ferocious pangs of longing. Islands within islands, he mused, everywhere he'd ever been a place he'd loved and felt confined in, trapped on, forced to escape. He wasn't trapped in the mountains, exactly, but isolated, purged, and energized. This was different. He was different. Far down the valley, a raven croaked and rode the breeze. Lord, what a place, he thought.

A few minutes later when the cat (which had been lying quietly beside his chair) bolted out of sight, Johnny craned to his right to see where the beast had gone. Learning nothing, he sat back down only to suddenly find a humongous white dog panting and drooling all over his trousers! Two of them, actually, only the younger was more stand-offish. This event was so unusual and startling, he knew he should pay attention. These were the friendliest and biggest dogs he had ever been face to face with, and so he asked: "Hey, what are you, messenger dogs?" for that is what they seemed. After panting, pushing, and drooling some more, they ran around in circles for a minute or two and flopped down in the dirt to rest without answering. But Johnny was satisfied, because he understood "dog medicine." Loyalty, above all else, and friendship. True friendship. If there was any sort of message here, that was it.

When his cup was empty, he went back inside to work for a while. Getting up from his desk later to take a break, he remembered his visitors and peered out the front door: there they were, sprawled on the porch drooling on the flagstones. (Awww. . .) Oh, New Mexico, what have you done to me? he wondered.

He'd kept his mouth shut, made it to the boat, and dragged it into the surf. The sun had set about an hour before and all was quiet. Johnny pulled on the oars and watched the moonlit shore recede into the darkness. It felt good to be moving along under his own power, smelling the salt air and listening to the soft waves slap against the sides of the boat. Above all, he was glad to feel the constraints drop away, to be able to talk again. He was free now, his own man, alone on the ocean. Or was he?

If it weren't for the sound of the water and the squeaking of the oarlocks, he might have heard the rustling in the bow. And if he'd turned around at just the right moment, when the moon came out for a second from behind a cloud, he might have seen the light reflecting off a pair of beady little eyes. . .

And a tiny, sharp-toothed grin!

John H. Farr also edits the news for Applelinks.com and invites your comments. The Farr Site Archives will take you to the past three years of columns. John also writes a monthly op-ed page column called "El Emigrante" for Horse Fly in Taos, NM and has an ongoing project called Zoozone News that he really wants you to visit (over 70 New Mexico pictures can be seen at the Photorama).

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