At the beginning of this year, we visited Kartchner Caverns for an after-hours tour of the Big Room. Today, we are once again on our way to Kartchner except this time we are heading into the Throne Room. Our January visit was incredibly impactful. This special photography tour had us linger for more than two hours in a place that typically does not allow visitors to stand and gaze at anything, let alone take pictures. With the Big Room closed in deference to a bat colony that’s busy doing bat things at this time of year, we were offered the opportunity to gather more grand impressions.

This post is being constrained by a lack of time, though. When I sat down to write about our experience in the Big Room some eight months ago, I had little idea that it would become my second longest post at over 10,000 words of yammering on about the kind of shite I tend to write when unleashed. Even this bit of rambling is occurring prior to our departure for the 180-mile drive south. Right now, it is still Friday morning while I try to get a jump start on the writing because I have a hard stop time arriving on Monday when we will shift dimensions. More about our dimensional shift in the days to come.

As I mentioned in my post featuring our “Balcony Bat,” this blogging stuff wasn’t supposed to be happening at this time but seeing how I’ll have only posted three missives over the previous 30 days, I’d consider that a solid amount of time off from posting stuff. As of a week ago, I’d forgotten about the rather pricey reservation we’d made just a couple of days after our previous visit, and while Caroline asked about canceling our “last minute” obligation, I’m more inclined to take advantage of this rare opportunity to enter the Throne Room and photograph it. Well, that’s about it for what I’m adding to this post here on Friday; more will follow in the minutes prior to our departure, I hope.

After entering the cavern, we walked into the Rotunda Room, where the mud flats are also found. Here, you can see the original path that brought the two men who first explored the 2.5 miles of passages back in 1974. Gary Tenen and Randy Tufts first trekked into this room, starting the deep trail through the mud that still looks much the same as it has for nearly 50 years. The preservation, methods of visitation, and care shown to Kartchner are meant to preserve this space, so visitors 50 years in the future will see nearly exactly the same thing we are witnessing today. And for your information, the growth of the formations in the cavern will likely be undiscernible in that time frame, even to visitors who walk these passages 200 years from now.

Being in this space is deceptive as far as time is concerned, and that’s probably appropriate, seeing how the heavy, slow hand of time plays its role here. I’m inclined to race through, trying to capture what I think I want to take visually out of the cavern. While two hours initially sounds like an adequate amount of time to photograph the highlights, everything becomes a highlight, and eyes hard at work to scan things as quickly as possible strain to take it all in. I’m armed with my tripod and a 70-200mm lens, but both are mostly cumbersome tools that interfere with moving fast. Not that I want to rush the process, but I have no idea what’s worth taking photos of before I arrive in front of the thing, and each successive thing might be better than the last, so I try to shoot fast and hope to circle back if I realize I hadn’t given proper due to a formation.

There’s much in the shadows worth examining, but the powers that determined where the focus of visitors should be directed made choices to best facilitate moving groups through the space while minimizing their impact. While a couple of hours of visitation with the lights up and not being ushered through in the same way as the typical visitor does, in fact, offer us photography enthusiasts the opportunity to capture the sights for ourselves, searching for the hidden gems is near impossible. So, I chase through, lag, turn back, and hope my eye will catch what the spotlights are failing to show us.

By this time, the zoom lens is put away for the night, I wish for my super wide 10-22mm lens, but its aperture is crap, so I’d have to properly use the tripod and hope I could get close enough to a formation to gain a different perspective. Or, maybe if I had my macro lens, I could approach the molecular edge and see for myself the process of accretion. Well, if my macro was actually a microscope.

Mineral-wise, these formations are likely quite similar to all other limestone-based cavern formations, and while there are variations of themes regarding forms that evolve in these underground sanctuaries, I never tire of seeing the shapes and patterns melting out of the earth above.

I’m feeling the pressure to cut bait, remove some photos, and curb this struggle to write something or other about our visit and what we found in the Rotunda and Throne Rooms, but I feel that no matter what garbage I manage to capture it will satisfy something of our interest in our memories when so many other corners of our lives are fading into the past.

It’s now Monday morning as I return to my struggle of finding metaphors to memorialize the sights we witnessed Saturday evening, which is rendered all the more difficult as I’m pinched by time constraints that see us boarding a flight in little more than 10 hours from the moment I’m turning to finish this post.

With so many dry areas throughout the cavern, it sometimes comes as a surprise when we find something that appears completely drenched. The desire to touch a thing is amplified when our senses demand to know the level of moisture, if any such moisture is even there, or whether the formation is just highly polished.

And then you spot an object riddled with a thousand tiny terraces and have no way of learning how this was formed. What I do think I can glean from looking longer at the objects is that on the right of this formation is a beehive-like design/accumulation where water that dripped for thousands of years continued to build up until one day, the drip that formed it was moving slightly to the left and started a new globule that grew atop the old one. Fast forward thousands of more years, and now we have this third bump, or maybe it’s a carbuncle that is emerging above the two older versions.

Being underground and at an uncertain depth, it’s impossible to know how much ground is above us. I’d love to see an illustration of what this area would look like if it were sliced open to expose a cross-section of the earth so we might see why this area is wetter than other areas and produces so many stalactites. From the nearly luminous stalagmite at the center of this photograph, it seems apparent that a seriously long drought was happening during its formation as for millennia it grew thicker before starting to taper off only to start adding girth again.

And nature looked within and upon itself, seeing the wisdom of its design; with such inspiration, it realized it was looking at the spine of creatures it would hang bodies from in order to create dogs, cats, fish, elephants, birds, and people. I wanted to work some angle into this about people playing as furries imitating parts of nature’s design, but it was taking too long and I really do need to finish a few things prior to our departure.

We are now in the Throne Room proper where Emperor Kubla Khan holds court. Grandson of the great Genghis Khan and founder of the Yuan Dynasty, Kubla Khan now sits in a metaphorical effigy at 58 feet tall, a showpiece among cavern speleotherms if ever there was one. But even mighty emperors must bid adieu and leave, and so, with that, we were done with our two hours at Kartchner Caverns and must return post haste to Phoenix in order to continue prepping for a departure that was less than 48 hours away.

Our 16th-century mystic guide, Don Carlos of the Unseen, emerges from the ethers between here and there. Swooping in on the wind, he nudges us to seek out what is not immediately apparent and easily grasped through casual observation. His wisdom is sculpted into the Secret Gardens of Duncan, which we were first made aware of some years ago; the exact date and location are of no import.

Roads nor maps can bring you to this sacred space; karma and at least some knowledge gleaned from the pages of ancient volumes known to the literary-minded will open a path. The geometry of the mind framed by experiences delivers the traveler to destinations as though transported through portals – such is the luxury of the learned. Understand that it is not smarts per se that reveal these opportunities nature has crafted for those exploring the landscape of curiosity; it is a trail kept open for hearty souls looking to wander the path of wisdom and have an inkling of knowing what they don’t know.

The abundance of mindful nourishment is all around us, and yet many are in an existence where nothing is found, their intellect withering on the vine. While many non-threatening insects such as butterflies, ants, and beetles play a part, it is the bees, wasps, and hornets that get the majority of pollination work done, and with them, there is an inherent danger due to their ability to sting. The symbiotic relationship between the beauty of a flower, the potential pain of the stinger, and the potential of nourishment to be provided creates a balance in nature that benefits many things, us included. Our mind is the flower, books are the bees and butterflies, and knowledge is the fruit.

This grasshopper is mass media, the internet, and the face of conspiracy theories. If there are but a few, their threat to crops is minimal, but when swarms of them descend upon the garden, there is a risk that they will leave nothing in their wake. Love, sharing, knowledge, and learning are the insecticides against the ravaging horde of pests that can destroy one’s mind. The key to a healthy garden/mind is found in balance.

Don’t look for dogma in the Secret Garden of Duncan, though you will find ample evidence of the Judeo-Christian tradition scattered about. They are not here as reminders of doctrine but are powerful icons of moments threaded through Western history, with their symbolic nature acting as hints of points in the timeline of where our ancestors strode. Zen is also present, inviting visitors to leave reasoning behind and simply be present for the spiritual, where one might find hints of satori, a.k.a. enlightenment experiences.

The garden is a place of meditation; just ask the cats. They might acknowledge your presence but are just as likely to maintain focus while ignoring you. Did you really want to talk to one anyway, or were you hoping to satisfy your need to snuggle a kitty? Take a moment and consider the cat: they are independent problem-solvers with advanced spatial awareness, object manipulation, and observational learning skills that might align to a greater degree with thinkers, artists, and creators, whereas dogs are more social with skills of obedience often suited to the sporty, gregarious types of people.

There are doors you may pass through, obstacles you must go around, and places in the garden you will not know how to navigate; they are the metaphors of your life. When Don Carlos brought this secret place into existence so many centuries ago, it was not his design to offer instructions or a map of what was to be obtained, gathered, or understood by those who might find their way in. We are obliged to carry the burden of our humanity with grace into uncertain futures where wisdom might be the reward, but should we abdicate our most human of qualities, that being the curiosity to learn and love, we could also find a future of damnation where the burden is eternal ignorance.

The paths one takes through doors and portals are relatively easy choices when they are confronted outside the terror of groupthink and enforced conformity, so few seem to have the wherewithal to walk a lonely path of individuality. It’s ironic that the deities worshipped by the masses are exactly those who had to walk alone, and yet today, many are most comfortable when embraced by a horde who are also uncertain about finding themselves and unwilling to challenge the habits that keep them in a kind of darkness while also threatening those who are going their own way.

Out of the garden and into the decay of that which is neglected, which in our age is most everything. This single building is but one small representation of turning away from something that once was important yet today is becoming a blight on the landscape. At one time, the resources and energy we used for commerce or to power our car or home were important, and now, today, its pollution and decaying carcasses poisoning our environment is an issue for others to come clean away the debris. Isn’t this also how people treat their own religions? We use the various books of law where theological doctrine is prescribed and throw out the inconvenience of adherence due to the burden of living in balance incompatible with ego, greed, and selfish consumption. We are but naked liars, begging/praying for forgiveness because the giant black holes in our souls scream at our stupidity that we are being less than what we are capable of.

Witnessing the better parts of what people offer as a collective absolves our individual responsibilities as we take credit for what the whole accomplishes. This shallowness is nothing more than a lie, a deception, and a cheat that we wish no one to hold us accountable for. It must be okay because everyone else is doing it. Plus, I’ll just ask my big deity in the sky to absolve me for these sins, and I’ll be good to enter the kingdom of heaven where somehow I will turn over a new leaf and start to honor what I wasn’t able to while I was in an organic form. This, to me, sounds like a recipe for admission to hell for those who are deceiving themselves that truth, love, and learning at the individual level is a requirement for a pious life. As an atheist, I find my piety in observing respect for all of this: the air, the plants, the mountains, other people, animals, everything. We should be aghast that in my lifetime, since 1963, there have been nearly 2 million gun deaths of fellow Americans, excluding deaths in war/combat. In all wars since the Revolutionary War 250 years ago, 667,776 Americans have died in combat, yet we claim to be a Christian people. We are a death cult afraid of living a righteous and accountable life.

There are no more flimsy toilet paper excuses left on the roll, America. You kill and poison in the name of God as the shit of your actions pile up, but you don’t care about real things because you don’t have the intellectual capacity to move your minds out of the toilet of stupidity. You’ll sit on the commode of inaction as the house burns down, all the while offering thoughts and prayers that a mystical entity should offer you salvation, even as you don’t really have anything to offer that might benefit the heaven you insist you love.

Chained, welded, and locked to rusty old ideas that seem good enough while simultaneously not really performing any function at all because who wants to criticize that it is the individual that is broken and likely not the myriad of issues the angry among us want to blame? Step back and look at the big picture. We have it all, including some warts, but the good fortune of opportunity exists large in the United States. If it wasn’t for the constant refrain of trying to lay fault on others instead of accepting, it is our own failure to have equipped ourselves with the requisite skills that would have allowed our happiness.

Hey John, are you trying to have it both ways? You say absolutely disparaging things about the violence and stupidity you claim to perceive, and then you turn around and extoll the virtues that lead to incredible opportunity? Yep, that sounds about right, but like this old decrepit building, things in decay that should be torn down should not be described as having hidden value. You can’t sugarcoat a turd and call it a bonbon. For our democracy to function, it requires all of our efforts, not just the waving of a magic wand by a charismatic leader or the tossing of an unpopular leader onto the gallows. These types of behaviors and thoughts are the machinations of spoiled children acting out and creating a spectacle that other stupid people enjoy watching because we’ve been trained to find enchantment in the trainwreck.

The previous images were from a town that existed at one time called Emery, Arizona. Apparently, it merged into Fort Thomas further east, and this old store is in Geronimo. If you look at the lower left corner of this building, you can make out the stenciled image of “Grocery.” By now, I suppose I’ve primed the reader for more lament and snark, but even I have my limits, so I’ll stop here. Should you desire more of my rant, you’ll have to wait for the next missive in which the observation of something reaches deep into my ass crack and chaps my brain cells.

It turns out that we are near the eastern edge of the Chihuahuan desert, which also means we are near the border where saguaro cacti grow. I’m pointing this out because Caroline noted that she thought this was the first saguaro we’ve seen on our drive west back home, so I checked their growing area and found out that they grow in the Sonoran and Chihuahua deserts and are sensitive to elevation and humidity hence why Arizona is the epicenter of this majestic cactus.

We spotted that capital specimen of saguaro while driving toward the Apache town of San Carlos on a detour to visit a place we’d never been to before. Moving through the outskirts and town proper in this corner of the reservation, we really didn’t want to give more time to our already long day, so with this photo of the San Carlos Cemetary and specifically the veterans section, we’ll turn our focus to going home. But first, some explanation of the photo. On Veterans Day, each of these tall poles will carry a U.S. flag honoring the members of the Apache tribe who served their country. We only looked at a small fraction of the grave sites, but we saw the names of soldiers who fought in World War II, Korea, and the Vietnam War, as well as more recent conflicts.

In honor of one of those men, I took special note of Marine Corps PFC Snyder Burdette, who apparently died fighting on November 13, 1942, and posthumously was awarded a Purple Heart for his sacrifice.