This past summer, my friend and I drove from Virginia to California and back. One of our longest days was hauling from San Antonio to El Paso. We decided to avoid the interstate for as long as possible by taking US 90, which follows the Rio Grande for a bit before crossing West Texas. This drive was incredible if for no other reason than the dramatic change of scenery. We went through flatlands, deserts, and canyons, and finally rendezvoused with I-10 near Van Horn. It was just about sunset and we had been driving since that morning, so we gladly pulled over at the first rest stop we passed. Now one thing you have to realize is that, as East Coast boys, we were not used to wide open expanses; besides the beach and the mountain tops in Shenandoah, there are very few places where you can see more than a mile or so around us. But out in West Texas, it's a completely different story. We hike up a few hundred yards from the parking lot to get a better view of our surroundings, only to be greeted by this breathtaking vista -- please note that none of these images have been edited. The mountains around us (I'm pretty sure they're the Guadalupe Mountains, but correct me if I'm wrong) were not huge in terms of altitude, but they were prominent, endless--majestic, even. We kept on walking over the crest of the ridge and found ourselves in the middle of some serious earthporn shit.
Hardcore.
I am not a religious man, but something about these bald mountains, these remote rolling hills and our relative isolation from civilization, something about this all spoke to me in a way that can only leave you silenced. For the first time in a long while, I found myself in the middle of creation, dwarfed by the glory of God. You know that feeling when you look up at the night sky in a rural area and see the universe and eternity stretch out before you in all their splendor and mystery? That feeling of total serenity and nothingness and tranquility? That feeling of everything making sense, if only for a few seconds? It was exactly like that, except tangible, explorable, right in front of us. This was the sublime incarnate, unchanged by humanity. This was rock and stone and sand and shrub all right there. And you know what the best thing about tangible greatness is?
You can piss on it.
I handed my phone to my friend and told him to take my picture in the midst of such awe-inspiring magnificence. I walked out into the expanse and, having turned to the setting sun in the West, facing away from my friend, I unzipped my fly and pulled out my manhood. The golden light of the Sun bathed me in bronze, a spotlight from Allah or Yahweh or Zeus or whoever you want to believe is up there, and having received this divine blessing, I relieved myself. I, a man, had transcended nature and mortality, and for about fifteen seconds I was a guest in heaven. Here's the picture (SFW).
Hallelujah indeed.
No urinary experience before then had even come close to such triumph, and while I fear none will ever come so close again, I do not lament, for I have seen the face of God, and I have peed in front of it, and it was good.
