The Sitting Rock

I was just there in August.

I had travelled to Flagstaff for the weekend, longing to escape the heat of Tucson and smell the fresh air of the forest again. Growing up in Flagstaff, I had developed a love for the mountains and pine trees that dominated the landscape. Leaving Flagstaff for college gave me a new appreciation for the town I already loved so dearly, and every visit became a treat to look forward to.

I was just there in August.

I was making my rounds to see my closest friends there with the limited time I had. We would always hang out at our usual spots around town, little hidden areas behind neighborhoods or in the surrounding forest where you could drive out five minutes and feel isolated from the world, immersing yourself in nature. These are areas where the background hum isn’t traffic, but birds and beetles, where the ambient scent isn’t exhaust, but pine and cedar. These are areas where you could smoke weed without the fear of getting caught, where you could get high and feel that this is where you were meant to smoke, this is the environment this was made for, and you feel that this-is-where-you-are-supposed-to-be-right-at-this-very-moment feeling. 

As is common with such moments you try hard to hold tight to them, but as with such moments it’s just sand falling through your grip onto the endless beach of the past. The moment is already gone, but everything is always just a moment. What remains is the memory, the location a landmark, the people a place. This hidden spot is nothing more than a speck, but this speck is everything. 

I was just there in August. I was just there at a smoke spot.

There was one smoke spot that stands out to me that we had found in high school within jogging distance of my parents' house. We would park in a dirt lot behind Foxglenn Park, take a short walk up and off a trail, and sit on a sitting rock. There we could look out over acres of meadow surrounded by the forest. We could see any people and cars coming from a distance before they could see us, shielded by branches, sitting on our sitting rock. At night, the stars were on full display. When the moon was out, it lit up the meadow almost clear as day.

This was a spot we frequented every time I returned to Flagstaff. I brought all my close friends there on different occasions and we would smoke and enjoy life, enjoy the conversation, enjoy the jokes, and enjoy each other’s company, even in silence. It became more than a smoke spot. It became the spot, and sometimes we would smoke. It was a spot where we could be emotional without fear of judgement. It was a spot where we could beat dead branches with a baseball bat when angry and frustrated. It was a spot where we could attempt to impress a romantic interest that went absolutely nowhere. It was a spot where we could go after a long day of manual labor and find some peace.

We were just there in August. We were just at the spot. We were just there on that sitting rock. 

But we should’ve seen this coming.

Flagstaff has a growing problem. Flagstaff has a big problem. Flagstaff is growing too big. The university here has been expanding at an unbelievable rate, faster than many predicted in my childhood. A growing influx of students equate to a need for more housing, and now we see that the beauty of Flagstaff has become its own downfall. More and more students want to study in this natural wonderland, more and more tourists want to come take pictures, and more and more land gets cleared out for hotels and apartments. There is a dilemma one encounters when falling in love with a place: should it be shared with the world at the risk of losing it? This is problematic, as it assumes that a place belongs to a person or group of people who can grant visitation permission to others. It would seem that this view of ownership can make one selectively xenophobic.

I have to remind myself that I myself wasn’t born here. I have to remind myself that I never even owned property here. I have to remind myself that I myself am now a tourist visiting family and friends.

But dammit this is my town. This is where I grew up. The quiet streets that politely pass through the woods are now busy with industrial construction equipment. The background buzz of beetles and birds are now the sounds of traffic and failed left turns. The scent of cedar and pine is mixed with the smell of mixed fuel and car exhaust. This isn’t my town; someone must have come through and replaced it with another.

I was just there in August. I was just at the spot. I was just on the sitting rock. I was just there.

I come back in November and what do I see but construction equipment and tree-cutting monsters laughing at me, mocking my heartbreak. That was our spot. That was our sitting rock. That was our landmark. That was our beach.

But it was never ours; we lied to ourselves thinking it was. We said to ourselves that this spot would remain untouched, that this spot was under divine protection. What fools we have been, doused in delusion and luminous illusion. It was only ever a spot. Was it even real? I swear I was just there; I swear I was present in those cherished moments. The reality is that it was only ever real in my mind. As quickly as it took me to walk to it from my car it was taken away, and yet my memories still exist. I know it was real; I gave it meaning.

Flagstaff is a merely a microcosm. As we blazed a trail to find happiness and comfort, we created a hell for our home. We ask for more and we take and we take, but what do we give? All we do is sit on our rock and pray someone will save us in December.