Death Valley

Back in 1969, there were bumper stickers all over this region that urged the elimination of all the seafood just east of here, in Nevada. The bumper stickers said, "Kill the Pupfish!", and people had had enough of this one inch swimming mongrel. But enough about that, let's talk about me.

Six years ago, I set camp at Furnace Creek under a creosote and headed for the cooking pots. I cooked green beans and mashed avocados and made cheese and bread sandwiches and fried spinach. I sauteed gulf shrimps in spice sauce and watched the sun set across the dunes.

I had a workable knowledge of a travel stove, some spare white gas, and a cooler of tightly wrapped foods. Nobody told me you couldn't carry your kitchen with you.

Back then - that was 1998, I didn't think much about the details that made life so wonderful.

I knew what I liked - every man - no matter how tempted and enthralled by the modern world - every man has the same basic things that make him happy. Food, women, sport. A good wine and some cheese. Her curves. His early morning sprint along the beach. There is nothing more to life than a good conversation and a balmy night, and the flourishing of our modern world will at best only help us to live and ponder and desire these age old things even more. That is, if we don't kill the pupfish.

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