By Roy Remer, EarthWays guide

In June of 2023, dear friend and co-guide O and I led a small group of men to a beloved canyon in the Mojave National Preserve. The beautiful place we affectionately called “Care-others Canyon” held these men who came to fast in ceremony and do their deep soul work. It is always a joy to guide programs in this place, home to so many memories of fasting pilgrims and their stories as well as the memories of my own deeply transformative experiences. The canyon has become part of me, woven tightly into the fabric of my life story. And, like so many stories, things will change suddenly, when you least expect it.

The men’s fast of 2023 took place amidst a vast sea of desert wildflowers, dense vegetation, running water, and abundant creatures. The heavy rains that came with winter after an extended period of drought left the canyon in a glorious state. The place was bursting with life like I had never seen before in the many years of guiding and visiting there.

Driving out on our final day of the program, passing Desert Paintbrush, Beavertail Cactus flowers, Crimson Columbine, Desert Marigolds and other blooms, I had a sense that the canyon and all its inhabitants had safely survived the drought. My prior concerns for the health of the canyon temporarily lessened by the Spring display of fertility and fruit. Until I would return again, the canyon would continue to thrive.

About seven weeks following the men’s program, barely enough time for the fasters to settle into new routines, I received terrible news. Driving home from the Mendocino coast in the triple digit heat that had settled over the Alexander Valley I learned from a text message from O that fires were raging in the Mojave. Our beloved “Care-others” Canyon was in the path of the York fire.

Racing down the highway in the air-conditioned comfort of my truck, it was difficult to fully integrate the reality of what was happening. It was impossible for me to imagine the kind of heat that passed through that region as the fire spread. A heat that reached 1500 degrees with flames up to 20 feet high destroys everything in its path. Joshua Trees, hundreds of years old being wiped out, the Canyon Live Oaks, the Juniper, the Pinyons, Creosote, all in the path of fire. Searching online for whatever updates I could find, I learned that the Joshua Trees would not return in my lifetime. My lifetime. Suddenly, thinking of the apparent scale of this fire and all the creatures of that canyon, my lifetime seemed of little significance.

With sadness and dread, my wife who had also fasted in the canyon, and I continued our drive home to relatively cool and comfortable Alameda on the San Francisco Bay. Text messages started coming in from other friends and fasters who had been to the canyon or knew what it meant to me. Expressions of concern, shock and sadness were shared. It was impossible to separate my thoughts about the canyon from memories of recent fires closer to home in the counties of northern California where friends lived. Turning in the back of my mind, the unsettling idea that this is the way it is now, we just don’t know what will burn next. And, also a longing to visit the canyon crept in; a longing to be with an old friend in its time of suffering. To bear witness.

It took me almost a year to visit the canyon. Life was busy as usual. Winter came with heavy rains and washed out the access road leading to the canyon. Spring arrived and with it the prospect of leading another men’s fast. But where? With the longer fire season, hotter temperatures year around, unpredictability of snowfall, increased traffic and heightened regulations, it has become more difficult to find land on which to guide programs. After talking it through, O and I decided to head down to Mojave for a quick recon trip to see the damage and explore areas untouched by the fire.

Driving a rented Jeep out of Las Vegas on Highway 15, it was no surprise that the May heat was intense, creeping up to 90 degrees. It would be cooler at our destination in the higher elevations of the park. Driving along the dry Ivanpah Lake and into Ivanpah Valley, the desert looked as it always does. Its flameless heat radiating off salty sand and rocks, the New York Mountains in the distance.

Climbing higher on Ivanpah Road, not even to the turn off for New York Mountains Road we lost count of the charred and lifeless Joshua Trees. Other flora- sages, brushes, Holly and flowering plants- were already showing signs of return.  The influence of erratic wind on the progression of fire was obvious. We drove in and out of the charred areas. In a strange way this contributed to a sense of hope that the damage at our destination would be limited.

The appeal of Care-others Canyon was the combination of stunning rock formations, abundance of trees and plants, and its high elevation. As we approached the mouth of the canyon, it did not take long to see that we were now in a different place. Even the enormous sculpted rock formations felt different without their green neighbors. We passed one camper who seemed to be there for a while before we drove across the wash that led to the upper campsites. In a normal year, our vehicles would get scraped up by the new growth on the brush pouring onto the trace of road. Not this time, all the brush was burnt back if not to the ground. An unfamiliar grass was thriving in the wash.

It was very strange to see across the canyon floor through the blackened denuded tree trunks.  The tree that sheltered the hawk that angrily buzzed O one year on his walks up and down the canyon was a charred remnant. A campsite the guides often used, a short distance from the fasters’ basecamp, looked exposed and barren without the foliage of the surrounding trees and shrubs. Passing each familiar spot as we headed up to the main campsite, I tried to imagine bringing a group here. How would it look to someone who had never been here before? Would it still evoke wonder and awe? How would the dead trees inform what they learned from the land about themselves?

The upper main campsite was where my grief really hit me, mixed with awe for the power of fire to thoroughly transform a landscape. Walking around the site I was a bit in shock, trying to take it all in. Yes, the stone picnic table and grill pit were still there, built for a daughter’s wedding by the rancher who once grazed cattle in the canyon; however, nothing else looked the same. We saw features low on the surrounding rock formations never seen before, now exposed. The pine trees that offered a bit of relief from the hot sun were completely destroyed. I wondered about the mice that explored our trash area, the chipmunks that skirted the rocks above us, the rattlers that would occasionally be seen just beyond the massive boulder that formed the “back wall” of the kitchen. And, the birds? Would they come back here? The stories of the place seemed a bit further from me now, as if they went up with the trees that had witnessed the telling of them.

After walking around long enough for my clothing to become streaked with char, I offered water to a plant or two that looked like they would continue to grow. We said goodbye to the place and climbed back into our vehicle to drive on out. This would be a short visit.  Our mission was to find a suitable place for a program and the day was getting short.

Somewhat at a loss for words, we each looked for signs of hope for the place as we drove out. I found it in the wildflowers. This year once again, despite the fire, the wide mouth of the canyon was animated by the colorful palette of the spring bloom. We drove away knowing that although the canyon will forever be different, it will eventually again become a place of splendor.

I have lived long enough to know that nothing stays the same for very long. Fire is a shocking reminder that nothing is certain and nothing is permanent. In these fleeting lives, we must allow ourselves to grieve what we are losing so quickly and to encourage each other to protect what we hold dear. We will continue to take fasters to these beautiful and fragile places while we can. We will support them to take time to grieve and to strengthen their resolve for acting to protect what they hold dear. This is work for ourselves, but more importantly, for the creatures which inhabit these sacred places and for those who will visit after we are gone.

I feel profoundly blessed to have learned so much from Care-others Canyon and deep gratitude for her receiving us for so many years. As always, I dream about the stories you hold.  The stories of prayer, joy and struggle. The stories of the critters, the indigenous Chemehuevi and Mojave people, the ranchers, the miners, and the revelers with their guns and off-road vehicles.  And, the stories of the fasters who have suffered and prayed upon your canyon floor. I dream of returning to sleep in your embrace again before too long.