The Priory Lit. Mag

The car roughly steered its way along the familiar, narrow road. Cracked asphalt pavement tracked the path between clu

sters of wild mustard and rusty barbed wire fences, foreign barriers to this terrain that held in gentle cows grazing in the overgrown fields of green. I sa

t in the car staring out the window of the silver SUV. My three younger sisters’ giggles sliced the silence. I kept focused on the landscape on my right as it merged together in a blur of colors. For ten hours, I had been imprisoned in the back seat , accompanied by the aroma of In-n-Out burgers consumed hours ago.

For once, I wanted the car to keep moving continuously along the lonesome roads. The usual road trips to my grandparents’ house decreased over the years because our schedules became full; it had been four years since the last vacation. I was sure that my absence from the house and the surroundings, which I once thought of as a second home, had not changed. Nothing ever changed here. The small town of Lone Pine, California, experienced little excitement over the recent years, ever since the thrill of the last Wild West movie trailer and the hoof prints of Trigger left the dusty, desert scenes decades ago.

I peered through the front windshield, spotting the typical street sign marked “Thundercloud Road.” It looked as though it didn’t belong, placed out in the open like this. My family’s enthusiastic screams of excitement and countdowns seeped through the protection of my earphones. I turned my iPod volume dial up to drown them out. The car speedily turned around the corner and revealed the long road which roughly rested in-between terrains of towering boulders and the open desert frontier. On the right, the familiar house emerged. Its modern, clean lines resembled wooden building blocks from my youth. The SUV blew up dust clouds from the dirt driveway and made its way up the hill, where the residence sat. Warm greetings from my grandparents followed our arrival, and so started my seven-day stay and imprisonment between the Sierra and the Inyo mountain ranges.

As usual, my family attempted to plant seeds in the greenhouse, experimented with cooking in the kitchen, and quietly flipped through books in the library, activities that I had outgrown and become bored of over the years. I was sure that the following days would consist of the suspected games of Clue, and the occasional trip into town to shop for groceries in the one market within 50 miles of the house. Routinely, lunch would be held precisely at twelve, followed by the echoing notes that Grandpa played on the intimidating grand in the living room. Some things never change.

The typical still silence of the desert was unsettling and the dry breeze swirled around the thin air. I didn’t like being disconnected from my friends and to the modern world. The constricted trip took up the last week of summer vacation. Attending parties, relaxing at the pool with friends, and many summer activities, were now pushed aside for this monotonous trip.

I attempted to work with the 44 local channels that flickered across the new flat screen, and turned it off with frustration. Picking up my cell phone off the coffee table, I ventured out one of the towering glass sliding doors, and searched for a signal. I walked aimlessly around the perimeter of the house with no luck. Trying to make time go faster, I strolled up the long outdoor staircase that led to the roof deck.

Sturdy, teak chairs sat scattered around the deck, blown by the violent desert wind. Dusting the wooden seat off carefully, I sat down and struggled to close my eyes as the evening sun felt warm on my skin. I restlessly stood up and paced around the deck staring at my phone as the battery flashed zero and the screen turned to darkness. As I tossed it down on the chair, I noticed the watercolor of sunset painted above the mountaintops.

All around me was an astonishing sight and I strove to absorb every detail. To the north of the house, copious boulders sprinkled the land up to the base of the bare, brown hills of the Inyo mountain ranges in the distance. To the west, the infamous Sierra Nevada Mountains emerged perfectly while the sun reflected its last rays on the remnants of t

he spring snow. Going over the individual peak’s names like old friends, I imagined someone at the top of Mount Whitney, celebrating her victorious climb. From all sides, protective boulders as large as a four-story house cradled my grandparents’ home and protected it from the desert that lay beyond. The contrasting terrain that encircled it remained untouched by man-made objects. The cool, thin air began to raise goose bumps on my forearms as the drastic change between the daytime hour’s summer heat, and the night’s chilly darkness was transitioning. Within an hour, a thick blanket of stars lay overhead. A meteor shower flashed across the sky like sparklers. I realized for the first time that this was not an ordinary place.

Over the next few days, I took more time outdoors. I went hiking and rock climbing in the back yard with my sisters, and took the old, green, bronco out on the dirt roads with Grandpa. Small signs on almost every corner of the empty “Movie Flat Road” marked the location of where certain motion pictures were once filmed. From the “Tremors” scene, the “Lonesome Ranger” sight, Lone Pine’s pride was mapped out by it’s past on screen. It’s history marked the land by articles left behind by generations past. The Chumash cemetery at the edge of town indicated one passing of time, and the planked wood doors that were embedded in the rocks of the mines depicted another.

As I understood the unique and rare setting that I had previously taken for granted, my moments here seemed too short now. When the time came for us to leave, I was in dismay. I had learned to enjoy the silence of the desert, my disconnection from excessive technologies, and relaxing with my family. Now, I hope things in Lone Pine never change.