Hope, Heartache, and Hoodoos

Light and shadow.
Chance and millenia, layered.
The sad beauty of barrenness.

I was surprised to find that that gray layer I'd been seeing in the valley banks was not clay, but sandstone. Some things are more solid than they seem.

*******

James and I happened on these hoodoos east of Drumheller by accident, after he decided he didn't want any more sightseeing and picked the shortest road back to the ranch house in the sandhills. We had been to Penhold, near Red Deer, Alberta, to see Ruth's graduation from her music program at the Air Cadet Summer Training Centre. The plan was to pick her up from there, but she was asked to stay on for another three weeks. Then we went to Calgary to put Garth on the plane to Nepal, and visit with Cathy and John and their boys. The bunch of us made the short trip out to Calaway Park, and I had some fun there in spite of my aversion to the whole concept of a piece of land dedicated to parking lots, power rides and junk food. I still like a Ferris Wheel. I took it easy, letting James decide when it was time to go, and then we headed for Drumheller, back to the badlands where we had camped overnight on the way out. I thought we would camp again, and see the dinosaur museum, and play on the elaborate splash-pad, and climb up to the lookout in the jaws of the giant T.-rex statue. But in the end, all we did was eat and drive on. The hoodoos were a fortuitous treat along the way, and then we drove and drove, with James lapsing into sleep, and me enjoying a classic country station on the radio, and a thunderstorm leading the way across those wide, high plains.

What's the title about? Hope and heartache?

I'm not sure, but it has something to do with the time away, and the coming home. And something to do with my morose musings today, over at The Daily Bed. This post started out as just a link to that one, and then it needed something, so I went looking for a picture, and found the hoodoos.

And now I remember a song.

Longing for the Badlands
© Laura Herman 2002

This little private lawn,
screened from all beyond,
and rich with all the perfume of the flowers
where he led me on his arm,
smiling full of charm,
and told me all his treasure would be ours...

Oh, the fountain flowing free,
the arch of ancient trees,
the hedges round the stately formal garden.
It's a lovely place to be,
or so they all tell me,
but here I stand, longing for the badlands.

I come to meet the dawn,
calling from beyond;
I watch the distant cloudbanks turning golden.
Those tints of rose and grey,
they look so far away
like the morning light on claybanks in the high plains.

Oh, the fountain flowing free,
the arch of ancient trees,
the hedges round the stately formal garden.
It's a lovely place to be,
or so they all tell me,
but here I stand, longing for the badlands.

The fountain and the stream
whisper in my dreams.
In my heart I hear the wind across the badlands.
Though I stand beside a pool,
there's a desert in my soul
and his footsteps on the cobbles bring no gladness.

Oh, the fountain flowing free,
the arch of ancient trees,
the hedges round the stately formal garden.
It's a lovely place to be,
or so they all tell me,
but here I stand, longing for the badlands.