Black Sun

Tonight from the sanctuary: This book has been on my mind for a few months now. It seems to make a reappearance each summer. The first time I read it I was staying down South at the Casa for the weekend. It was mid March and the temperature was still brisk. I would hot tub in the early morning and read while I soaked and hot tub late at night to finish. In the middle of the day, I’d curl up by the fire with a blanket and read until someone needed a sandwich or wanted to catch lizards or bike in the red rocks. At that age, I thought a fire lookout would be a great profession. Years later, this book would float down the Colorado river in my ammo can waiting to arrive at camp. I’d read by head lamp light and fall asleep in the pages of Mr. Abbey. One year on the gear boat, it was a slow day on the river. I rummaged through my ammo can, found the book, and Miller and I read chapters while floating down river. For a few summers this book lived in the bathroom box and traveled to every rendezvous we camped at. Some nights, after putting guitars away and stoking the fire a bit to much we couldn’t crawl right into bed. John would pull out the book and read to me. Soon I’d be snuggled into wool blankets, dreaming about living in the high mountains watching for fires and waiting for the sight of the air attack plane. Listening to the fire pop in the stove fit right in to Mr. Gatlin’s story. I guess four years ago I read half this book again. Right to the good part where I left my bookmark and put the book back into my book shelf. I don’t really remember much about that read, but today I found evidence of it. I pulled this book out of my bag at the office today and quickly my friends noticed this book has seen some miles. It’s pages are stained, it’s been rained on, splashed on and has tiny bits of sand in the pages. It’s well loved for sure. Tonight after working in the rain all day, smelling the rain masking the scent of smoke, talking about how much I love the smell of fire, even though it’s not the most popular smell, I put on warm sleep socks, burned a candle and pulled a fuzzy blanket out so once again I can read Edward Abbey’s “Black Sun”, a book about the mystery, that is, and the bewildering grief of death.