Chapter One
Canyon of the Vaginas
When one is on a pilgrimage to the Canyon of the Vaginas, one has to
be careful about asking directions.
I mean, there’re some pretty rough ol’ dudes in west-central Nevada.
One knows the ol’ dudes are rough when one observes that they eat
with their hats on.
Nine days I was in the high desert between Winnemucca and Las Vegas,
during which time I never witnessed a male Homo sapiens take his
noontide nor his evening repast with an exposed bean. In every
instance, a grimy bill or brim shaded the fellow’s victuals from the
vulgar eye of light. I assumed that they breakfasted en chapeau as
well, but by the hour that your pilgrim sat down to his flapjacks,
the rough ol’ dudes had already gone off to try to strike it rich.
When a man’s brain is constantly heated by thoughts of striking it
rich, thoughts that don’t fade much at mealtime, perhaps he requires
some sort of perpetual head cover to cool the cerebral machinery. On
the other hand, since they live in relatively close proximity to
America’s major nuclear test site, a nerve-gas depot, several
mysterious airfields, and numerous depositories for our government’s
nasty toxic secrets, maybe the rough ol’ dudes are just trying to
prevent their haircuts from ever flickering in the dark. If I lived
in west-central Nevada, I might dine in gloves and a Mylex suit.
Naturally, one has to wonder if the men of Nevada also sleep in
their hats. More pointedly, do they sleep with their wives,
girlfriends, and thoroughly legal prostitutes in their hats? I
intended to interview a Nevada woman or two on the subject, but
never quite got around to it. However, something at the Canyon of
the Vaginas gave me reason to believe that the answer is
affirmative. Of that, more later.
Getting back on course, beneath those baseball caps that advertise
brands of beer or heavy equipment, under those genuine imitation
Stetsons, there’re some rough ol’ hangovers being processed and some
rough ol’ ideas being entertained. One simply does not approach a
miner, a wrangler, a prospector, a gambler, a Stealth pilot, a
construction sweat hog, or sandblasted freebooter and interrupt his
thoughts about big, fast bucks and those forces-environmental
legislation, social change, loaded dice, et cetera-that could stand
between him and big, fast bucks; one simply does not march up to
such a man, a man who lifts his crusty lid to no one, and ask:
“Sir, might you possibly direct me to the Canyon of the Vaginas?”
* * *
Should readers desire to make their own pilgrimage to the Canyon of
the Vaginas-and it is, after all, one of the few holy places left in
America-they’ll have to find it by themselves. Were one to inquire
of its whereabouts at a bar or gas station (in west-central Nevada
they’re often one and the same, complete with slot machines), the
best that one could hope for is that a dude would wink and aim one
at the pink gates of Bobbie’s Cottontail Ranch, or whatever the
nearest brothel might be called.
In the improbable event that he fails to misinterpret one’s inquiry,
and/or to take sore offense at it, a dude still isn’t likely to
further one’s cause. For that matter, save for the odd archeologist,
neither is anybody else. The population of Nevada arises every
morning, straightens its hat, swallows a few aspirin, and trucks off
to try to strike it rich without so much as a nervous suspicion that
the Canyon of the Vaginas lies within its domain.
Your pilgrim learned of it from a Salt Lake City artist who has
hiked and camped extensively in the high deserts of the Great Basin.
The man drew me a fairly specific map, but I, in good conscience,
cannot pass along the details. My reluctance to share is rooted
neither in selfishness nor elitism, but in the conviction that
certain aspects of the canyon are quite fragile and in need of
protection.
Not that genuflecting hordes are likely to descend upon it: the
canyon is remote; troubled, according to season, by killer sun,
ripping wind, and blinding blizzard; and is reached by a road that
nobody making monthly car payments should even think of driving.
Still, there are plenty of new-agers with the leisure and energy to
track down yet another “power center,” and plenty of curiosity
seekers with an appetite for the exotic souvenir. Surely I’ll be
forgiven if I’m ever so slightly discreet.
Besides, what kind of pilgrimage would it be if it didn’t contain
some element of hardship and enigma? The quest is essential to the
ritual. To orient ourselves at the interface of the visible and
invisible worlds-which may be the purpose of all pilgrimages-we must
embrace the search as well as its goal. If our journey into the
heart (or vagina) of meaning resembles in any appreciable manner our
last trip to the shopping mall, we’re probably doing something
wrong.
I can disclose this much: to arrive at the Canyon of the Vaginas,
your pilgrim had to travel a ways on Highway 50, a blue guitar
string of asphalt accurately described by postcards and brochures as
the Most Lonesome Road in America. It will impress some readers as
poignantly correct that so many vaginas are reached only by a route
of almost legendary loneliness. Others won’t have that reaction at
all.
* * *
Physically, my pilgrimage commenced in downtown Seattle. Downtown
Seattle has long been my “stomping grounds,” as they say, although
in the past couple of years it’s lost its homey air. A side effect
of Reaganomics was skyscraper fever. Developers, taking advantage of
lucrative tax breaks, voodoo-pinned our city centers with largely
unneeded office towers. In downtown Seattle, for some reason, most
of the excess buildings are beige. Seattleites complain of beige à
vu: the sensation that they’ve seen that color before.
In any case, it was in a Seattle parking lot, flanked by beige
edifices, that I exchanged cars with my chiropractor. He took my
customized Camaro Z-28 convertible, a quick machine whose splendid
virtues do not include comfort on long-distance hauls; I took his
big, new Mercedes.
If, indeed, the reader should decide to motor to Nevada and it
proves to exceed an afternoon’s jaunt, may I suggest swapping cars
with a chiropractor? Chiropractors’ cars are not like yours or mine.
Theirs tend to be massage parlors on wheels, equipped with the
latest breakthroughs in therapeutic seating, lumbar cushions, and
vertebrae-aligning headrests. It’s like rolling along in a
technological spa. The driver can get a spinal adjustment and a
speeding ticket simultaneously.
So relaxed was I in that tea-green Mercedes that I didn’t look
around when I heard my chiropractor burn a quarter inch of rubber
off the Camaro’s tires. In a certain way, it was reminiscent of the
movie Trading Places. As the good doctor tore off to drag sorority
row at the University of Washington, I oozed through the beige maze
with a serene, chiropractic smile, braking tenderly in front of
Alexa’s apartment, and then in front of Jon’s.
For days to come, the three of us, Alexa, Jon, and your pilgrim,
would take turns piloting the doctor’s clinical dreamboat along
tilting tables of rural landscape. Once we’d crossed the tamed
Columbia and were traversing the vastness of eastern Oregon, once we
were out of the wet zone and into the dry zone, out of the vegetable
zone and into the meat zone, out of the fiberglass-shower-stall zone
and into the metal-shower-stall zone, we would glide through a
seemingly endless variety of ecosystems, most of them virtually
relieved of the more obvious signs of human folly, all of them
unavoidably gorgeous.
Some of the hills were shaped like pyramids, others resembled the
contents of Brunhilde’s bodice. One was so vibrantly purple-black
that we suspected we’d discovered the mother lode where eye shadow
was mined. There were craters and slumps, stacks and slides, alkali
lakes and sand dunes, gorges and passes, fossil beds, dust devils,
and enormous ragged buttes that could have been cruise ships for
honeymooning trolls. We followed chatty little creeks, spilling
their creek guts to anybody who’d listen; we swerved to miss
antelope, reduced dead jackrabbits to two dimensions, honked at
happy dogs and range steers, photographed gap-toothed windmills and
churches in which no collection plate would ever circulate again,
inhaled sage until our sinuses gobbled, and cast self-righteous
judgment on the bored adolescent gunmen and beered-up Cattle Xing
terrorists who’d blown a Milky Way of holes into each and every road
sign.
It delighted me that the Canyon of the Vaginas was out here smack
dab in the middle of the Wild American West. How swell that in the
Old West of gunfights and land grabs, massacres and gold rushes,
bushwhackings and horsewhippings, missions, saloons, boot hills, and
forts, there existed a culture that celebrated with artistic
eloquence and spiritual fervor the most intimate feature of the
feminine anatomy.
Imagine Custer’s cavalry troop thundering innocently over a ridge,
only to come face-to-face with (gasp!) the pink, the moist, the
yielding, the delicately curly. Imagine a Saturday matinee: Roy
Rogers at the Canyon of the Vaginas.
Mentally, emotionally, my pilgrimage began back in my late twenties
or early thirties, whenever it was that it first occurred to me that
the female genitals were literally divine. In the Orient, especially
in the religious systems of Tibet and India, that notion has
prevailed since dimmest antiquity, and as a matter of fact, there
are yonic symbols in the caves of Paleolithic Europe (dating back
twenty thousand years) that are indistinguishable from those
venerated today by the tantric cults of the Himalayas.
When I read how, among the practitioners of tantra, the vulva is
adored as the organ for the generation of world and time, it struck
a resonant chord. From that day on, I have been seeking the American
tantra, which is to say, I’ve been seeking American images that
promote that inner intensity of feminine sexuality, whose source is
the Goddess of Creation.
Among the examples that have caught my attention are the
bubblegum-colored underpants that Bonnie Parker left behind to taunt
the cops when she and Clyde Barrow flew the coop. I was convinced,
you see, that the American tantra must be as different from the
Asian tantra as we Americans-sweet gangsters at heart-are different
from pious Asians. In the modern sense, I still think that’s true,
but until I learned of the Canyon of the Vaginas, I’d neglected to
consider the tantric contribution of American Indians.
Having meditated on and received inspiration from such ostensibly
profane icons as Bonnie’s panties (she purchased them, by the way,
at a small-town Kansas dime store in 1934), it fazed me only a
smidgen to discover that what may be the ultimate tantric tribute on
our continent is located in west-central Nevada. Even that trace of
skepticism vanished when I remembered that the Goddess of Creation
also serves as the Goddess of Destruction.
(Continues…)
Random House Audio
Copyright © 2005
Tom Robbins
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-7393-2175-7
Excerpted from Wild Ducks Flying Backward
by Tom Robbins
Copyright © 2005 by Tom Robbins.
Excerpted by permission.
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