One of the extra delights of running in the desert is the cairns which manifest themselves along the way.
For some reason they touch me. There's something about a pile of rocks carefully placed, about the notion someone stopped to build one and what inspired him to do so that fills me with wonder, sometimes melancholy, even reverence.
And, forgive me, but there is something magical about them as well. The cairns are always changing. One day the trail will read like the back of my hand, the next, a cairn stands silently as I pass by.
When I return, the cairn may be gone. Did the wind knock it down? Hard to say.
All I know is it's gone.
Sometimes the cairns are small and easy to miss. Who knows how many times I passed these tiny villagers before noticing them? It's these little surprises, like an unexpected egg hunt, which make me smile and feel ridiculously happy.
Why do you think someone builds a cairn?
I asked the death squad this very question and after a round of shoulder shrugging, their concensus was this:
Some dudes like stacking things.
Followed by another shoulder shrug.
I was all: That's it? That's the best you've got?
And they were all: Yeah.
I'll be honest--it pained me. It pained me to think this is the company I keep. This is the calibre and scope of their imagination.
Because I was hoping for something with a bit more intrigue. Just slightly less dull. I was hoping, say, for theories involving an ancient Norseman travelling through time, lonely yet unbroken, searching for his long lost love, building monuments in the hope she'd come across them and know his passion would never die.
Is that too much to ask??
Or even just a college student who wanted to mark the passing of his calculus exam.
Franchement.
That would have made me happy, too.