Accompanying this abrupt seachange is a renewed sense of responsibility. The hour is late, I remind myself; I have been dawdling far too long in negative realms, squandering precious gifts. There is no longer any excuse for such impotent behavior.

"When the Amazonian forests or the world's grasslands have all fallen total prey to the gods of economic development and to the devils of human stupidity, " writes botanist Hugh H. Iltis, "no one will care to ask 'Who was responsible?' But in fact, we all will have been guilty! Let us then paraphrase the old Talmudic questions: If not us, who shall speak for the flowers? If not now, when?"

And yes, as I struggle to extricate myself from yet another pessimistic binge, I inevitably grow eager to speak for the flowers.

"But how to defend the flowers," I asked myself recently, "when I have gotten so out of kilter with all this getting and spending and laying waste of power that I find it almost impossible, even, to speak for yours truly?"

Obviously, a process needs to occur. First, I must heal myself: only a healthy idealist can shoulder some responsibility for the threatened world. Charity begins at home.

More than once, when mired in a daze and a desperation, I have recalled the words of Thoreau. "Live in each season as it passes," the man wrote. "Breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each...."

Okay, fair enough. Pulling out my tattered Walden I read a few chapters, and am reminded that I grew up in a family of naturalists. Actually I spent most of my childhood out of doors. Hence, I am familiar with the curative powers of the natural world. In fact, I have already turned to that world more than once in time of need: how silly of me to forget.

And to top it all off, for fifteen years I have lived in a high, northern New Mexico valley (bisected by many small rivers that descend from magnificent tall mountains) which is one of the most beautiful natural places I have ever seen on earth.

It happens, then. Quite suddenly one morning I jump up, tired of nihilistic visions, rarin' to change. And without further procrastination I dress warmly, gather up my camera equipment, jump into my truck, and head westward from this green Taos valley in which I live, aiming for the deserted mesa land lying just beyond the Rio Grande Gorge, a treeless almost uninhabited territory that seems to hover with the neutral rhythm of millenniums, as constant as the sky above ... and just itching to save my soul.

My aim is simple enough: I want that precious balance back again.

As soon as I park my truck and step upon that sagebrush earth, the quiet land envelops me in a protective cocoon of solitude, and all the hard structures begin to melt inside my tense and tired body

Text from the book "On The Mesa" by John Nichols, Copyright © John Nichols.
Reprinted with special permission from John Nichols - All Rights Reserved.
Photography © Peter Staats - All Rights Reserved.