Every time I hear or see the word ‘BAE,’ I can’t help thinking its an abbreviation for ‘Bacon And Eggs.’

Cast in a shadow, some 20-feet above was an alcove of sorts. I bagged my gear, swung it over my good shoulder and proceeded to haul myself up along the nearly smooth canyon walls.

The alcove was not much more than a flat surface with enough room for shelter once I pulled my knees to my chest. I made immediate use of the flat space by laying on my stomach with my rucksack’s straps wrapped around my wrist.

Whether disjointed or not, I figured that I could use the weight of my pack to bring my shoulder back into place and to catch some much-needed rest while I waited for the joint to reduce. It wasn’t long before a searing pain awakened me when my shoulder returned to its natural position with a dull-pop.

Able to look up with a fair amount of comfort, I couldn’t tell how far I had fallen. The best I could do was guess that the plunge was between 80 and 100 feet.

It was closing in on nighttime, so I decided to use the last few minutes of light to stretch my legs and to look for an exit to the slot. Not to far from the alcove I heard the first, faint sounds of impending danger – water dripping more and more rapidly.

By the time I realized how much danger I was in, the water was rushing around my ankles, pulling at my boots. I raced back towards the alcove, climbing out of torrent of water that grabbed violently at my thighs and threatened to complete the job that the fall hadn’t.

Without much light I was unable to see the water as it edged closer and closer to precarious rock perch. All I could do was listen to its thunderous roar and pray that it would stop before reaching me as I had no place else to go.

But like all gully washers that occur somewhere higher in the rocky formations, the rain didn’t last and soon the roar dropped away to a slight dripping. By that time though, my ears rang violently, as if I’d stood next to a fighter jet preparing to take off.

I let the ringing and whooshing in my already aching head lull me into a sleep.

The following morning, a brightness shined directly on my spot in the wall. Below me, I saw no sign of water, let alone a flash flood – the sand and the rocks had drunk their fill and all was dry again.

Hungry, I pulled some food from my pack and ate before climbing down. I was terribly sore throughout my body following the events from the day before – but I knew I had to find a way out of the canyon before the sun reached its skyward zenith.

The sand showed signs of downward movement, marking the way to go to find a way to the outside. The slot was long, perhaps a mile, maybe less and it emptied through a very narrow opening, which made sense about how quickly the water had risen the night before.

The gap between the sandy ground and the rocky ceiling of the opening was so small that I had to dig down to make enough room for my body to slide through. Once I figured I had enough room to squirm through the hole, I wrapped my rucksack around my left ankle and slipped into the waiting sunshine.

Clear of the canyon and clear of the hole, I had one more danger to contend with and that was the troublemakers with their buggies. I sat quietly for half-an-hour listening for the sound of an engine and enjoying the warmth of the sun.

Soon it was clear that I was alone and that I was free to move swiftly to the nearest roadway. Still, I remained on alert for the sight or the sound of a dune buggy as I made my way across the warming desert floor.

Facebook makes me miss MySpace.

It’s not ‘happy wife, happy life,’ it’s ‘happy spouse, happy house,’ because everyone deserves to be happy.

When I finally woke from unconsciousness, there was confusion in what I saw. Before me was an endless bed of yellow-brown sand, punctuated with particulates of white and larger bits of black.

As I lay there, I slowly came to my sense, realizing I was face-down in the half-light of a deep crevasse of Utah earth. It slowly came back to me about how I ended up in this position.

It had begun about a mile north and east, further up the mountain, where I happened to come across two dune-buggies, each carrying two men. Immediately, I knew I was in trouble as they began to race in circles around me and eventually started chasing me from one out-cropping to another.

Slowly, I wiggled my toes, flexed my ankles, knees and hips as I pushed myself onto my knees. Still severely dizzy I decided I should roll onto my butt and not attempt to stand jus’ yet.

Something was wrong with my right-eye; I could not see from it. Furthermore, it felt as if glued shut.

They were practically on top of me when I found myself teetering on the edge of a slot-canyon, whose bottom I couldn’t see. I tried desperately to stop, then to leap the distance, but instead, I fell downward into the blackness of the abyss.

God had smiled on me. I recalled nothing of the fall and as far as I could tell I had only some abrasions and a bunch of bruises – save for the inability to open my eye.

Touching the cheekbone beneath the shuttered eye, I felt the roughness of sand and other debris sticking to my skin. There was also a sticky substance around the area which led me to feel the top right part of my head – a deep gash had bled down over my eye and with the drying aid of the fine desert silt, had pasted my eyelid closed.

It took me a few minutes to work the sandy loam from my eyelid and to begin blinking again. That’s when I felt the pain from the cut on my head and decided it needed further investigation.

Fearful of what I might find, I gently pushed down around the wound. I was happy to learn that the bone below the wound was not spongy or sharp – therefore my skull wasn’t fractured.

Slowly, using the nearby cavernous wall, I dragged myself to my feet. I tried to look up towards the opening, from where I dropped, but a sharp pain in my left shoulder prevented me from raising my head.

Running my right hand over my shoulder, I couldn’t detect an injury. I had dislocated my shoulder some years before, so I knew what I should be feeling – but nothing.

As I tried to raise my left arm, a shooting pain nearly drove me to the ground. And as I fought off the desire to pass out, I saw my little finger on my left hand twisted and sticking out at an odd angle.

Regaining my composure, I looked for a place where the light from above shined on the sandy bottom and moved to that spot. Once there, I pulled my rucksack from my shoulders and removed my first aid kit.

It took me all of two minutes to shift my broken pinky back into a somewhat normal position, and to tape it in place using my ring finger. It also took all of my strength not to scream out in pain; I didn’t know if the buggies were still nearby and I didn’t want to alert them to my survival.

Two things I’ve come to really value as I’ve aged: Two-ply toilet paper and comfortable shoes.

The clerk at the DMV called out, ‘8-7-6.’ I jumped up and shouted, ‘5-3-oh-9.’ No one got it, including the security guard who reminded me, ‘Use your inner-voice next time.’

‘The Gospel According to Luke’ is the story of Jesus Christ. It consists of 24 chapters; one for each day of December up to Christmas eve.

It wasn’t like I meant to pass through my estranged wife’s home town at the time, but it was the only way I knew of getting to Julian and to the eastern side of the Salton Sea. The beginning of July is nice in the higher elevations, but dropping down through Anza-Borrego, it became ungodly hot and nearly unbearable.

Traveling along the roadway through the forested areas could be pleasant. But once the trees fell away behind me, shade and ice-cold water running from a high mountain stream were about the only things I could think of — save for the sudden punctuation of the large rattlesnakes that enjoyed themselves by stretching out on the asphalt in the sun along my path.

“Keep your mind on what you’re doing, ya dumb-fuck,” I kept telling myself as I’d realize I’d slipped into a state of heat-induce insensibility.

Finally, I came to one of the lowest point in the valley near Niland, and following Beale Road I came to Salvation Mountain. I’ve never seen anything like it, with all of it’s colors and all the Bible verses pronouncing Jesus as the only way.

I was certain, after seeing this, I was on the right path as I’d been praying for direction for some time.

A place that seemed more myth than real, the Slabs is a harsh reality for the untrained leather-tramp. I was so surprised that it even existed, even after I got there and set up my camp site overlooking ‘O-My-God Springs,’ a nudist colony that seems separated from the rest of the area.

Having only heard it spoke of in passing, I had no history on the place. But soon I learned from a couple of old-timers that it used to be a U.S. Marine Camp Duncan, in used from 1942 to 1949.

The first night was the easiest evening I had when it came to sleep. The next six nights were harder than it was hot during the daytime.

After a couple of nights I realized that nighttime’s were purposely arranged to be filled with partying and noises beyond all compare. Not even a busy night in Los Angeles or San Francisco can compare to loudness committed by the dwellers of that fabled desert hide-a-way.

It’s also amazing how easily a person can adjust to the non-quiet, and at least in my case, it was far easier than the first time experiencing the complete silence of a high desert camp. Once adjusted, I visited ‘The Range,’ a makeshift bar and musical venue.

Its aged and weathered desert colors were home to a stage, a single microphone and a variety of broken and worn down chairs and couches and an old set of high school football spectators benches surrounding it. The best place to sit is on a blanket in the sand or in the sand, itself.

Barbara was a self-described, “old hippy-chick,” 14-years my senior. We bonded immediately after I learned she’d been raised in northern Humboldt County and was a member of the Hupa Tribe.

“I’m a member of one tribe, trying to belong to another tribe,” she informed me, “And I can see you’re in the same situation. Why?”

I had no answer for her — or me for that matter.

We ventured away with a couple of beers and a small bottle of tequila to find ourselves laying in the dunes facing west. At night, shortly before the sun sets, a breeze blows in from the southwest over the Salton Sea, bringing the wretch-worthy decaying odor of a body of water that’s dying.

She knew it; I didn’t. I gagged; she laughed. We drank; we fucked.

The next morning I found myself alone, laying in the sand looking up at the most beautiful blue skies I had ever experienced. But no matter where I looked, I couldn’t find Barbara.

Eventually, I came to the conclusion she was either a figment of my imagination or a spirit that seeks out souls, ones that need a listening ear and a shoulder to lean on and that perhaps I was that person needing her befriending. As I hiked north towards Indio, I came to imagine that perhaps I was the friend and she were the spirit needing somebody.

Later on, having found a book on names at a thrift store, I came to learn that her name, ‘Barbara,’ is from the Greek word ‘barbaros’ meaning ‘foreign or strange, traveler from a foreign land.’ I still get the chills thinking about this certain piece of trivia.

In any case, I heard her message: stop searching and return to ‘my tribe.’ I figured that after a couple more weeks, following Highway 10 to U.S. 95, I’d be back home where I could begin to rebuild my broken life and heal my wounded heart.

I was right.

The video header reads: “Pianist plays Chopin in the Himalayas at 16, 000 feet.” My first reaction, “At that elevation, it must’ve been breathtaking.”