Obsidian and wildflowers

Roadside litter with a capital G

I thought at first it was broken glass along the side of the road, but it was too concentrated and too consistent. Every time we rounded a bend in the highway (which was often on that narrow, mountainous ribbon of pavement), every place that the hillside had been carved away to ease the sharp curves, the gravelly shoulder sparkled and glimmered.

There couldn’t be that much broken glass. It couldn’t be litter.

We pulled over, hopeful, suspecting something spectacular, and we were not disappointed. Indeed, it wasn’t broken glass, at least not man-made broken glass. It was shards and nuggets of obsidian—black volcanic lava with high silica content and minimal impurities, which had been super-heated, then rapidly cooled. It was nature’s glass.

We had seen bits of it occasionally as we’d wild camped in the area the previous few nights, but the concentration of it here, as we approached an area called Glass Butte, was bountiful.

The indigenous peoples who originally populated this region of eastern Oregon used it for knives, for arrowheads, for spear tips. It’s no wonder. When freshly broken, the edges are impossibly thin and sharp. We had to be careful not to cut ourselves as we picked up various pieces—many as big as our fists or even larger—to admire them in the glint of the morning sunlight.

It wasn’t litter. It was chunky natural glitter, and in plentiful supply—litter with a capital G.

We picked out a few glossy pieces to take as souvenirs to rockhounding friends and family, then added obsidian to our growing mental catalogue of natural beauty.

Already, we had been impressed with the wildflowers—almost all of them yellow, incidentally—that grow along the sides of the western United States’ highways and byways at this time of year¹. We had encountered various different species, each thriving in its own unique environment. Though the type of flower varied, the consistent presence of sunny yellow flora lining our path had become ubiquitous. Sometimes the flowers grow so thickly, so uniformly along the roads’ edges that they mimic a planned landscaping design element. The lovely yellow borders are nature’s matchy-matchy accessory to the dotted yellow line down the center of the road.

Andy and I had mused from the cab of Walter, our big and likewise yellow expedition truck, on a variety of theories regarding the unusual growth patterns of these prolific flowers.

Could they be attracted to the heat of the pavement? Maybe the arch of the road, like the curvature of a soccer pitch, provides extra hydration to the roads’ shoulders when it rains. Perhaps car tires carry the dried seeds after they pull over to the side, or the extra breeze generated by passing traffic carries the seeds along.

After a little research, I learned while many of our guesses may come into play, the primary reason the flowers grow along the roadsides like that is because the land has been disrupted, disturbed. The road construction and maintenance stir up the soil and promote propagation of flowers that only thrive in rocky, sandy environments. Returning the favor, the plants’ root systems then absorb the excess water runoff from the roads and prevent erosion along the shoulders. The relationship between the black belts of pavement and the lovely wildflowers is unexpectedly beautiful, smart, and symbiotic.

After several days of wandering and camping in eastern Oregon, we set our sights on Coyote Ridge Campground in the Fort Rock area outside the sleepy town of La Pine. It was time for the 4th annual Northwest Nomads gathering, a five-day, four-night festival of music, communal meals, campfires, and silly activities—basically summer camp, but without the rules², for grown-ups (and families) who live a nomadic lifestyle in some sort of camper, van, or converted school bus. Our rig would be a bit of an outlier—a weirdo among weirdos—but we were excited to meet others who share our lifestyle.

We pulled into the campground on Thursday afternoon and left Monday around noon. Wow. What an experience. Andy and I found it to be a fascinating scene, an eye-opening glimpse into an alternative side of American life. I had spectacular conversations with friendly, intelligent people on a wide variety of topics—sort of like an informal compilation of small-group TED Talks:

• the role of AI technology in education and the arts

• families on the road finding creative solutions to education as they travel

• the concept of Jesus as an “eco-feminist” (the Master’s degree dissertation by a woman who studied all the world religions and kept coming back to Jesus and His revolutionary teachings and radically counter-cultural interactions with women and the natural world)

• the reverse culture shock experienced by former Peace Corps volunteers who served in Morocco and decided to stay for years before returning to the United States

• the process of rehabilitating and redomesticating former street dogs

• the give-away model of social media business and how it can be grown into a sustainable source of income

• the recovery of the grizzly bear in western Montana

• how an adult woman’s recent diagnosis of autism has impacted her understanding of her childhood years, as well as the challenges that being neurodivergent add to her current marriage relationship

In addition to so many lovely conversations, I also had several unique experiences:

I took part, with Andy, in a cornhole tournament, and we did ok, surprisingly.

I created an impromptu free book exchange booth along “Maker’s Market” row to redistribute the excess paperbacks that I’d already read and was ready to discard. Many others brought their books to my table, as well, and everyone’s books found happy new homes by the end of the long weekend.

I got an outdoor haircut under the canopy of a baby blue Ford van, which came with a side of education for Andy—a crash-course of demonstration and intensive, step-by-step instruction so he can learn to become a better stylist for me as we travel.

I even participated in one of the evening open-mic events, performing a dramatic recitation of Robert W. Service’s “The Cremation of Sam McGee” to an appreciative and encouraging crowd.

Also, Andy had a glass of rum with a pirate³.

It was quite an event. The weather was fantastic (blue sky and sunshine with pleasant daytime temps and crisp, cold nights). The wooded campground with its dark night skies lit by assorted twinkle lights was magical. Most of the music (three or four different bands per evening) was wonderfully artistic. The overwhelming attitude of kindness, generosity, humility, and acceptance—along with a lighthearted sense of humor—was inspiring.

As could be expected from a nomad gathering in Oregon, there were occasional clouds of sweet-smelling smoke here and there throughout the campground, and accompanying giggles from those in the midst of the haze, but mostly it was a family-friendly and joyous event.

On the final day, as people packed up their rigs and prepared to go their separate ways, everyone, it seemed, was busy exchanging hugs, stickers, and Instagram handles. The air was filled with the sounds of so good to meet you and happy trails and safe travels and see you down the road.

But as we waved out the windows of Walter’s cab and maneuvered between the towering pines to drive away from the lovely nomad gathering, I was struck by a note of sadness. Many of the people we know would have turned their noses up at such a scene. Vanlife and skoolie⁴ people are not exactly socially acceptable in many circles. In fact, the running self-deprecating joke, even from the main stage, was that most of these people’s families are disappointed in them.

The majority of the nomads we met this past weekend would not consider themselves homeless. A sizable percentage were bright, educated people with jobs they can do anywhere who have simply found a loophole—an affordable housing option they can combine with a love of travel, allowing them to stretch their income further. However, their DIY rigs with the less-than-professional paint jobs are often rejected at many formal campgrounds and frequently run out of town when parked on city streets. Nomads are perceived by many as not only homeless, but also as dirty and dangerous, often treated with disdain as dregs of society that need to move along.

Count us among them, I suppose.

Rather than riff-raff, trash, or litter, we found these people to be roadside treasures—not unlike the natural treasures we have noted as we roll down the quiet byways. Although some do indeed have some rough edges, they glitter like obsidian. Although others may seem flighty and unstable, they dance in the breeze like sunny yellow wildflowers, adorning the monotonous stretches of blacktop with unmistakable joy and beauty.

But obsidian only forms through heat and pressure. It only sparkles when it’s broken open and exposed.

Yellow flowers only line the roadsides because the soil was disturbed, and they adapted and learned how to survive in rocky soil where others could not.

See you down the road, my nomadic friends. Happy trails. May you encounter kindness along your journey and may your light continue to shine. Don’t let anyone convince you that you are litter.

You are Glitter.

Until next week,

Sherry

P.S. Next week, I will have a new 7 Questions guest, which is good news for those of you who have missed this feature of my blog. Sneak preview: it’s an interview of a woman I met on a small boat cruising down a river in Borneo in search of trees filled with rare monkeys in the daylight and fireflies at night. Pretty cool.

1. I found an amusing online guide to identifying the flowers along the American roadsides entitled “A Field Guide to Roadside Wildflowers at Full Speed.” I am confident the photos will bring you at least a smile and likely a good chuckle. It’s worth a peek.

2. Actually, there were two rules at Northwest Nomads: wear your wristband, and leash your dog. The other strong suggestion was to keep the environment family friendly, since there were indeed many families there, with children of all ages. Most people complied, most of the time.

3. This is not some clever turn of a phrase. Andy actually had rum with a pirate. This photo may explain things—or it may not.

4. A skoolie is the nickname for a school bus converted into a camper, usually a do-it-yourself job.